Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘I do at that.’

  Uncertainty returned to her gaze. ‘Arsehole . . . is he—?’

  ‘Unkillable?’ Brasti asked. ‘Gwyn barely had the arrow out of his rump before the dumb beast was already jouncing around the camp looking for someone to play with.’

  Chalmer’s smile became a grin as she looked at me. ‘Take care of my horse, would you?’

  ‘You want a new coat and my horse?’

  She nodded. ‘That, and one more thing.’

  ‘Anything,’ I said.

  She let go of my hand. ‘I think I’d like to sleep now, First Cantor.’

  Because I knew she’d understand, I said, ‘But just for a little while, right?’

  Her eyes closed.

  *

  I found Quillata and the rest of the double-double-crossing Greatcoats huddled outside. ‘How is she?’ Old Tobb asked, the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the cold. I couldn’t help but notice that he and the others had shed the fur cloaks they’d been wearing in Avares, as if doing so proved their renewed loyalty. I stared at him, becoming more and more convinced that his disposition, intellect, and integrity could only be improved by him being slapped silly for an hour or so. The only reason I stayed my hand was that I realised I’d been wanting to do that a lot lately.

  ‘Chalmers is a Greatcoat,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t break just because a few piss-drinking barbarians shake their clubs at her.’

  The others glared at me, a flash of anger at what they – quite rightly – suspected was a slight at their own constancy. The King used to say the true strength of the Greatcoats was in our judgement – that our ability to render the right verdict was what made us worthy of the coats. I’d asked him once what our greatest weakness was and he’d not even paused to think before replying, ‘Your damned pride. You’re all so brave, so daring, so skilled at fighting, it’s a miracle you don’t all beat each other senseless on a daily basis just to prove who’s tougher.’

  ‘We thought we were saving the country,’ Jakin, the King’s Stone, said, strands of dark hair falling across his face as he bowed his head mournfully. He was the same age as Kest, Brasti and me but he’d always struck me as much younger, somehow – idealistic in a way that comes and goes so easily when you’re a teenager.

  ‘Then you thought wrong,’ Kest said tersely. He’d recruited Jakin to the Greatcoats in the first place; that explained the unusual edge to his voice – and Jakin’s stricken look.

  Quil stepped forward, shielding the others from my ire. ‘We’re not going to drop down to our knees and beg forgiveness, if that’s what you’re waiting for, Falcio. The country was rotting from the inside – everyone but you three could see that! It was so obvious the King’s plan – whatever it was – had failed.’

  Murielle de Vierre, the King’s Thorn, came a little closer; with her long red curls and high cheekbones she looked far too exotic for such drab surroundings. We all assumed the King had named her his ‘thorn’ ironically, because her remarkable and delicate beauty made ‘the Rose’ far more appropriate. ‘Morn promised us, First Cantor,’ she said dramatically. ‘He gave oaths to us—’

  ‘What did he promise?’ I hadn’t stopped wondering what he could possibly have said to turn more than forty Greatcoats away from everything they once believed in.

  ‘That if we stood by him there would be no war,’ she explained. ‘That once the Dukes seceded, the country wouldn’t be able to field an army, so no one would have to die.’

  ‘So instead we could all live as slaves?’ Brasti asked.

  Murielle shook her head, wanting us to understand. ‘No, he really did have a plan! Morn would show the horde that he was able to win the country with just a few warbands and once they’d made him the Magdan of all Avares, he’d be able to convince them to allow Tristia to remain unconquered – a kind of . . . well, a client state.’

  ‘And how exactly did he manage to convince you of that rubbish?’

  She looked ashamed, and I felt a little bad for it. On the night King Paelis had named Murielle to the Greatcoats she’d surprised me by asking me to come into town to celebrate with her. I’d refused, giving the excuse that I had to leave on a judicial circuit early the following morning. If not for that moment of cowardice, it might have been the start of something between us. Now I looked at her, at all these men and women who had once been more than a family to me. I’d tried so hard to prove myself worthy of the rank of First Cantor – worthy of them. ‘How could you all have betrayed the King this way?’ Of course, what I really meant was something far more petty, How could you all have betrayed me?

  ‘Morn’s plan made sense,’ Quil answered defensively. ‘Far more than the King’s dream ever did, that’s for certain.’ She kicked at the snow. ‘Damn it, Falcio, you knew Paelis best. How were all those stupid little missions he gave us supposed to save Tristia from itself?’

  I’d asked myself that same question countless times and I had yet to come up with an answer that made sense. One hundred and forty-four Greatcoats, each sent off with one final enigmatic order. Would Paelis still have given those commands if he’d known the price they would extract from us?

  Parrick Morran, the King’s Calm, forced to save the life of Duke Jillard – a man the King himself despised.

  Nile Padgeman, the King’s Arm, sacrificed himself in a hopeless effort to protect Duke Roset in Luth. Harden Vitale, the King’s Whisper, died trying to protect Saint Gan-who-laughs-with-dice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

  Kest caught my eye, his expression warning me against showing uncertainty in front of the others. Kest Murrowson, the King’s Blade, forced to promise that he’d kill his best friend before allowing him to become a tyrant.

  ‘Perhaps the King believed there was no other way,’ Kest said. ‘Perhaps before we could restore the rule of law, we needed to first prove to people that the laws meant something – that the Greatcoats would do whatever it took to uphold them, even at the cost of losing everything we’d ever fought for.’

  Falcio val Mond, ordered to find and protect the one girl who could have fulfilled the King’s vision for the country – only to watch her die on the cold stone floor of a broken castle.

  The others were watching me. ‘I don’t know,’ I repeated dully. Who was I to blame Quil and Tobb and all the rest for being seduced by Morn’s promises of easing Tristia’s suffering? What magistrate wouldn’t wonder what a nation might be like if it were ruled by a judiciary instead of feckless nobles? If I hadn’t had Kest and Brasti with me these past years, if Valiana hadn’t come into my life, had Aline not shown herself to be so remarkable, might not I have lost hope as well?

  Murielle took my hand. ‘We were wrong, Falcio. Morn made his scheme sound so logical, so brilliant both in conception and execution.’ Her gaze went to the field down below. ‘It wasn’t until we got here that we realised how far he was willing to go, how . . . personal this is for him.’

  ‘He hates me that much?’

  ‘Not you—’ She was shaking her head. ‘I mean, yes, Morn despises you – but mostly because you always stood up for the King.’ She let go of my hand. ‘It’s Paelis Morn resents – for lying to us, for tricking us into believing we could somehow protect the country after his death, when in reality the King had no idea how to save Tristia.’

  ‘So now Morn wants to destroy the country just to prove a point?’ Brasti asked, sounding as incredulous as I felt.

  ‘No, it’s the opposite,’ Quillata interrupted. ‘He wants to prove he can do what Paelis couldn’t: that he can build a better nation than the King could have even imagined.’ Every line in her face echoed the regret in her voice. ‘It’s become an obsession for him, Falcio. It’s made him cold and mean, but it’s also made him . . . He’s brilliant, Falcio, he really is – far more so than any of us ever realised.’

  The noo
n sun was starting to rise, lending a shimmer to the snow and ice on the cliff-top where the horde waited for the next act of Morn’s tantalising performance. Why was it that in Tristia, madness so often went in hand with genius? What was it about my people, that their worst desires were inextricably linked with the means to bring those desires to life?

  ‘I’ve dealt with clever men before,’ I said, and turned to make my way down the hill and onto the field where Morn and I would meet for the final parlay before the battle.

  ’Not like him,’ Quillata called out. ‘Morn manipulated the populations of two countries into this war and tore Tristia apart without even firing a shot. He tricked every one of us – even you – into playing a part in his plans.’

  I paused for a moment. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Falcio, I truly am, but he’s better at this than you are.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  The War Speech

  ‘Hello, First Cantor.’ Morn’s tone was surprisingly amiable considering we were standing nine feet apart at the centre of a field between two armies. Apparently the distance was one of the precise requirements for this next little piece of theatre called The Peace Parlay, in which our two nations would have one final opportunity to avert war. This particular tradition must have come from some long-ago era when Avareans had been more civilised, for the seven thousand barbarians on the other side of the field jeering and grunting at me clearly couldn’t wait to get started on the ‘bloodshed’ bit of the tradition.

  ‘Did you want to surrender, Morn?’ I asked pleasantly.

  He shook his head, but he kept his eyes fixed on me, which told me he wasn’t entirely sure I’d hold to the oath not to attack during the parley. ‘It has to be war, Falcio. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. Tristian blood is going to drench the snow beneath our feet, and every man and woman you dragged here is going to die.’

  ‘You sound broken-up over it, Morn. There is one option that would save everyone a lot of trouble, if you’re up for it.’

  ‘A duel? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? You beat me once.’

  ‘Because war doesn’t work that way.’ He gestured at my hand, which kept drifting towards the hilt of my rapier. ‘By the way, the Avareans have very strict rules when it comes to rokhan. If you kill me right now, I promise you our countrymen would pay the price for a thousand years and a thousand more.’

  Nehra had already reminded me of the consequences of losing my temper before I’d come onto the field. Twice. So had Feltock, Kest, and Valiana. Even Brasti added his own two bits’ worth. So I ignored him and asked instead, ‘Remind me, how long exactly do we have to stand out here staring at each other like moon-crossed lovers?’

  ‘Not long. Another minute or so should satisfy both sides that we made the attempt.’

  ‘What shall we do to pass the time then? Know any good songs?’

  He sighed. ‘Another joke. You know what disappoints me most about you, Falcio? It’s that you could have been a great man. You can outfight most soldiers and out-think most Generals. And yet all you do is throw yourself at the waves of history, hoping to beat back the ocean. And every time you nearly drown and Kest has to pull you out of the water, you point to your soggy clothes and shout, “See here? This is the blood of my enemy! If I just keep going back, eventually he’ll run out!”’

  ‘I asked for a song, not a poem.’

  Morn chuckled. ‘Always so clever. I wonder . . .’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘Are you prepared to put that eloquent wit of yours to the test?’

  ‘You won’t duel me but you want to have a talking contest?’

  He spread his hands. ‘It’s only words. What have you got to lose?’

  A great deal, in fact: Nehra had already warned me that the ­Avareans had another little ritual up their sleeves called ‘the Oration for the Dead’. The leader of each side is afforded the opportunity to speak directly to the opposing soldiers in an attempt to break their spirit. Basically, you’re expected to describe in detail what will happen if they dare to fight in hopes that some significant number will turn tail and run. Nehra had made it clear that there was nothing I could say to the Avareans that would scare them, whereas there were any number of dark images Morn could describe to our soldiers that might convince them to abandon the battle. Of course, the Avareans didn’t really expect us to agree to this particular tradition, which was good, because only an idiot would do so.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s all hear what you’ve got to say.’

  *

  ‘You know me,’ Morn began as he walked along the snowy ground at the front of our lines. His voice was calm, almost reassuring, and it carried surprisingly well. He would have made a passable opera singer. ‘I was born in the city of Chevor, in Baern. I bet some of you were as well.’

  A few heads nodded in response.

  He took out a small knife from his coat, causing several of our soldiers to grab their spears tighter. Thank the Saints dead and living, no one did more than that. Feltock had spent the better part of an hour explaining exactly what would happen if we attacked an emissary during the Oration. Since the whole point of us coming here was to convince the Avareans to think well enough of our courage and discipline that they’d choose not to massacre every townsperson and villager in the country, we were going to have to stand here for a bit, listening patiently to Morn’s garbage. I wondered if any army had ever had to suffer so much just to win the favour of its enemy.

  ‘I’m one of you,’ Morn said, running the knife blade across his palm. ‘My blood is as Tristian as any of yours.’ He put the knife back in the pocket of his coat. ‘So why must it be only your blood that will be spilled on this field?’ He renewed his slow walk along our line. ‘I have family in Tristia, just like you do. So why must it only be your families who will weep over your death?’

  ‘Maybe your family just doesn’t like you,’ Brasti shouted, setting off a smattering of laughter.

  Morn smiled as if we’d just played right into his hand. ‘A joke?’ he asked, once the laughter had died down. ‘Is that what they offer you in return for the senseless waste of your lives? A fucking joke? But no. I think it’s something else.’ He turned and started walking back in my direction, pointing at me. ‘I think this man has made you a false promise. I think Falcio, along with Filian, the boy King, Duchess Trin’s puppet, who cost you the life of the Queen you loved, has convinced you that if you die bravely here, your families at home will be treated with respect by the Avareans once we invade.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ one of our men shouted. Feltock shot him a look, but by now the soldier wasn’t about to be cowed – at least, not by Feltock. ‘We were told that if we fought here, life might not be so bad for our folks back home.’

  Morn stopped walking and stood there for a moment, staring at the man who’d spoken. His expression was sympathetic at first, but then he began to laugh. ‘I take it back,’ he said, in between chuckles. ‘Falcio did offer you a joke in return for your service.’ Then his face hardened suddenly. ‘Look at me, you damned fools! I am the Magdan of Avares. I am the leader of that army – seven-thousand strong – who will rip you limb from limb upon that field in the morning.’ He resumed his march along the lines, and the men and women he passed flinched more than they had during the Scorn.

  ‘Respect?’ he demanded, then threw an arm back to point to the army on the other side. ‘You think those warriors, born and bred for battle, will respect you? They won’t even see you! The Avareans admire courage, that’s true, but only when it’s paired with skill in battle. Most of you have never even killed a man before. You’ll stumble. You’ll hesitate. The Avareans will run right through you, their blades slicing through the flesh and bone of your bodies like freshly sharpened scythes through dry summer grass! They’ll keep running, too, all the way to your homes, to you
r cities and towns and villages, where they will rape and kill everyone you’ve ever loved. That is what you are doing to your wives, to your husbands, to your children. You are bringing the horde to their door!’

  ‘We have to stop this,’ Kest whispered to me.

  ‘We can’t,’ Nehra warned. ‘Once the Oration has begun, we’re bound to let him finish.’

  ‘Look at our soldiers. Morn may not even need to finish his speech before they all drop their weapons and beg for mercy. Falcio . . .’

  ‘We play it out,’ I said.

  Morn must have noticed us talking because he turned to us. ‘Look at them. See how they scheme against you, even now? Do you want to know the truth about Falcio val Mond and the Greatcoats? Would you like to know the real reason why he brought you here to die?’ He paused for a moment, just to make sure I was watching him, and that I would pay attention to what he said next. ‘Tell them, Falcio. Tell these brave men and women about your wife. Tell them why the King named his daughter after her. Tell them the finest joke ever inflicted upon a nation.’

  ‘You should shut up now,’ Kest said, just loud enough for Morn and those nearest in our front line to hear.

  Morn shook his head sadly. ‘It is an awful tale, to be sure: a woman raped and killed by the Duke of her own Duchy in some tavern while her husband still knelt in the shit and grime of his own land, unable to make himself stand up again because he’d failed to draw a blade when they’d taken her away.’ Morn locked eyes with me. ‘The others knew about your past, Falcio, but they never understood it, did they? None of them ever understood the real reason for the formation of the Greatcoats.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell them,’ I said, though I’m not sure the words came out as anything more than breath leaving my lungs.

  ‘It was all for her!’ he shouted. ‘All of it!’ He turned to face the troops, every one of whom looked captivated. ‘King Paelis needed a fool – a jester; a madman who would go around the country ­parroting his ideas for all to hear.’ Morn gestured to the other Greatcoats standing together behind the lines. ‘Someone who could find other fools to do the same: not an easy job, I assure you – but who should turn up in the King’s bedroom one night but Falcio val Mond.’ His arm swung back to point at me. ‘Do you think the justice he wants is for you? If so, the joke is on you, because there’s only one injustice that Falcio has ever fought for: revenge for his wife’s death!’