by Victor Milán
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you had light to work with, Lord?” asked Florian with deceptive lightness.
“I learned to saddle a horse in the dark when I was a boy,” Jaume said, “campaigning against the miquelets in the mountains of Dels Flors.”
The Companion horse-paddock was next to the stouter enclosure where their war-dinosaurs lowed and grumbled to each other, in a little valley near the town of Red Crag. The Companions had sited their cantonment so that the winds mostly kept the stench of the rest of the army away.
Tree-frogs sang in the copse from which the party of Companions had emerged.
“I’m sorry, Lord!” Bartomeu blurted. “I—”
“Don’t blame the boy,” rumbled huge Ayaks. “We intimidated him.”
“It’s all right, Bartomeu,” Jaume said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. My actions stuck you between two stones, I’m afraid.”
“Where were you going, Lord?” asked Manfredo.
Jaume smiled. I won’t lie, he told himself. These are my friends—my Companions.
Besides, it wouldn’t do any good.
“Following Melodía, of course,” he said.
“Pay,” Florian said to the Taliano. “I told you he’d try to go after her. You just don’t understand passion.”
A wave of pain washed over Manfredo’s square-chinned face. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” he rasped.
Florian raised a brow. Then his mouth set, as if he realized what he’d said to a man who had so recently given his own longtime lover the final mercy.
“Your pardon,” he said, lowering your head. “I spoke without thinking. The captain’s right to have his doubts about me, I suppose.”
Manfredo frowned, but said gruffly, “Pardon granted.”
“You can’t leave us!” said Wouter, with more emphasis than was usual for him. “We’re just about to march against Conde Ojonegro.”
Word of Melodía’s bizarre arrest, imprisonment, and escape had been the second body blow Jaume in as many days. The first came when, instead of the expected command to march the Army of Correction back to La Merced to be dissolved, orders came bearing Felipe’s seal to turn the army’s attention to the fief near the border with Francia, whose lord had been defying the throne in a complicated matter involving ownership of several choice fiefs.
Jaume shook his head. “You don’t need me for that. It’s not as if I did such a marvelous job in the campaign against Terraroja.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Machtigern.
“You can’t leave your appointed post in command of the army,” Manfredo said severely. “That would be a dereliction.”
Jaume smiled thinly. “I thought I was the Constable,” he said, “commander of all Imperial Armies. I could put you in charge of the army, if I chose.”
But Manfredo shook his curly red locks. “You’re also Marshal. The Emperor put you in command of the Army of Correction. You must remain at your post. You can send out Companions, or whomever you choose, to search for the Princess. But at that, only so that she might be returned to La Merced for trial.”
“Jaume’s not going to drag his lover back to captivity in chains,” Florian said. “Nor send anyone else to do it. He shouldn’t either. This whole thing stinks of a setup. You know her better than anybody, Jaumet. You’ve known her since she was a child. Would she plot against her father, for any reason whatever?”
“Never,” Jaume said.
He scanned the faces of his beloved comrades. “This comes as no surprise to you, I belatedly see.”
“Rumors of the upheavals in La Merced reached camp two days ago,” Ayaks admitted. “We kept them from you as best we could.”
“Thank you, I suppose. But now I do know. And—I must go to her.”
“What will you do for her?” Machtigern asked. “What could you do?”
“Help her. Shelter her. Bring her here, I suppose.”
“You can’t do that,” Manfredo said gravely. “She’s a fugitive from justice.”
“I know what lies behind all this,” said Machtigern. “Falk.”
The normally taciturn knight all but spat the name of his fellow Alemán.
“Who killed Duval in duel and took his place in command of the Imperial Guard? Who killed the Emperor’s own kinfolk while trying to arrest them, had his infernal white pet of a tyrant bite the head of Prime Minister Mondragón on the plaza before the Pope’s own Palace? Who arrested your own beloved Melodía on charges of plotting against her own father, which everyone in the Empire knows for a trumped-up travesty? Why not lead us Companions straight back to La Merced and deal with that damned rebel goblin, Captain?”
Ayaks laid a hand on Machtigern’s wide shoulder. “You have said something there, my friend. Nor should we neglect this mysterious confessor of His Majesty’s, this Fray Jerónimo. I’d bet he’s the one behind all this insanity!”
“Not a good idea, brothers,” said Florian. “Jaume leaving his post plus marching the army on La Merced? That would equal plain treason against the Fangèd Throne, if not in his uncle’s loving eyes, then in those of too many powerful figures for even Felipe to disregard. And his Holiness Pío’s only looking for an opportunity to yank our Charter.”
Jaume stared at him. “You? Mad Florian, advising caution?”
Florian shrugged. “I can’t let myself become too predictable. But the idea of taking the Order back to La Merced races past rash. It’s just foolish. Still, I agree you’ve got to do something, Captain.”
“If you abandon the army, what will become of it?” Manfredo asked. “It will ravage the countryside worse than ever. And probably wind up destroyed, which, while small loss in terms of the villains who’d actually do the dying, would deal a terrible blow to Imperial arms and prestige.”
Jaume knew the former law student had a point. But unaccustomed anger bubbled up inside him. “And if I abandon Melodía? What kind of man would that make me?”
“One who follows the law he’s sworn to uphold,” Manfredo said. “What can you do to help Melodía, if you won’t take her back to stand trial? Go into exile with her? That’ll be your only recourse, if you violate the Empire’s Law.”
“Have you forsaken Beauty then, Manfredo?” Jaume said in cold fury. “Have you lost faith with the Lady we all serve, and gone back to worship Torrey and the rigidity of His Law?”
Even in the spitting torchlight Jaume could see the color fall out of Manfredo’s face. The Taliano turned and walked into the night.
Jaume deflated. He realized his wrong at once. He longed to call after his friend—his Companion. To apologize for letting his temper seize control of his tongue.
But the hellbrew of passion that had driven him since he read his uncle’s oddly bloodless letter had deserted him abruptly. Now he felt little but cold clamminess inside, and bewilderment at the dizzy wheeling of events in the normally placid court. Duval and Mondragón were Felipe’s friends, he thought, and as loyal as I am. And who could believe Melodía, of all people, of wishing her own father harm?
But one man in particular, he knew, must have believed those things. —I cannot shape that thought now.
He sagged. Then, feeling a strong grip on his shoulder, turned.
“Whatever you decide,” Florian said, “we’re behind you. Us Knights-Brother, and most likely the Ordinaries as well. Even that dry stick Manfredo. You are our Captain-General, and our friend.”
Jaume squeezed his eyes shut. He felt tears weight down his lower lids.
“I suppose I can only do what I have all along,” he said, opening his eyes and forcing a smile. “My duty to my uncle and the throne.”
“And Melodía?” Machtigern asked.
“I can only hope for the best for my true love. She’s smart, stronger and more resourceful than she knows.”
But inside he asked himself: Have I made the worst of choices? And could it be, once again?
Chapter 3
Trono Colm
illado, Fangèd Throne—Throne of the Emperor of Nuevaropa in La Majestad, supposedly fashioned from the skull of an unprecedently huge and terrible monster, an imperial tyrant (Tyrannosaurus imperator), heroically killed by Manuel Delgao, progenitor of the Imperial line. Since no confirmed reports of the existence of such a monster have ever been discovered (although it is duly listed in THE BOOK OF TRUE NAMES), the Fangèd Throne is widely presumed to be a sculpted fake, if a glorious one, and the Creators to have an arch sense of humor.
—THE BOOK OF TRUE NAMES
“People are scared by the news of a Grey Angel Emergence in Providence, your Majesty,” Duke Falk von Hornberg, new head of the Imperial bodyguard, the Scarlet Tyrants, told his master as he walked beside him across the Palace yard in the dim dawn light spilling over the western walls. “Many voices are calling for immediate war, in the La Merced streets as well as at court.”
“Well,” said Felipe, Emperor of Nuevaropa, as he hopped one-legged, trying to pull his right boot off without stopping, “we can’t rush into this. I’m getting pressure from the family not to do anything too rash, you know. They truly believe we’ve held on to power since the Empire’s inception by not exercising any of it. Shortsighted, but there you have it.”
But he didn’t sound too displeased at Falk’s report. Which suited Falk fine.
“There,” His Majesty said in satisfaction. He tossed the boot to a servant, who was already carrying its mate. Felipe did not mind walking barefoot, a fact of which Falk approved. “Any word how Melodía’s doing? Or where she is?”
He skinned his hunting-jerkin of thin springer-leather off over his head, baring a chest and paunch covered in fine ginger fur.
Falk set his jaw. “Majesty, there are underground ways that run between the dinosaur stables and the Great Hall for your morning audience. I really must insist you not expose yourself to danger in this way.”
“Oh, pshaw. I’m only Emperor. Not truly important. Although we may yet change that, am I right? But I’m damned if I’ll skulk like a thief in my own home.”
The Firefly Palace, Palacio de las Luciérnagas in the regional tongue and main language of the Empire itself, wasn’t strictly speaking his home. It was actually owned by Prince Heriberto, the local ruler. But he rented it out to Felipe, who in turn preferred it to the official Imperial residence in the capital, La Majestad.
Felipe stripped off his linen trunks and the loincloth beneath at one go. Falk averted his eyes. These southerners had a scandalous lack of body modesty.
“Now, tell me, what have you heard of my daughter?”
“Nothing, I fear,” Falk said. “She and her wench are doing an excellent job of hiding from dutiful nobles and their vassals despite our sending alerts throughout the Empire to keep a watch for the fugitives.”
“Good,” Felipe said.
As a devotee of the Creator Torrey, or Turm in his native speech, as well as a firm believer in the principle of order, Falk should have spoken right up about how the Empire’s own law was not to be taken lightly—least of all by the Emperor himself.
He did not. For one thing, Felipe was the Emperor, and belief in order meant belief in the hierarchy: that those above ruled those below by right. Nor was Falk so single-minded in his devotion to his principles as to be unaware that contradicting one’s boss isn’t always the soundest career move.
But mostly it was because he was thinking, Good indeed. Better if she isn’t captured at all.
“She did escape imprisonment for treason, your Majesty,” he settled on saying. “With the help of her serving-maid, also a fugitive from the law.”
Felipe was just tying up a fresh loincloth. “And I quite agree with you that, drastic as it was, arresting her was the best way to get her out of the bull’s-eye lantern glare—and away from the turmoil of Palace intrigue you’ve so ably been putting to rest, my dear boy.”
So pleased you feel that way, Majesty, Falk thought. Inasmuch as “putting to rest the turmoil” had so far consisted of personally using his albino Tyrannosaurus war-mount Snowflake to publicly decapitate the Emperor’s longtime friend and Prime Minister, Mondragón, and killing several of Felipe’s own relatives. Granted, they were scurrilous rogues, and no one would miss them. Nor be the wiser that Falk’s rise had entailed actively if briefly conspiring with them. And all that also left aside that Falk had acceded to his current post of chief Imperial bodyguard by the expedient of challenging its former older, also long in Imperial service, to a duel and then killing him.
Amazingly, all is actually going to plan, he thought. Or most of it.
Mother, are you proud of me? She wouldn’t be, he knew.
One of Felipe’s trailing servitor-gaggle tossed an elaborate ceremonial yoke of yellow ridiculous reaper feathers over his shoulders.
“There!” Felipe said, plucking the harness more satisfactorily into place as another servant fastened it with a brooch inset with a thumb-sized ruby. “Now I’m suitably Imperial to meet those beastly Trebs this morning. No doubt they’ll be whining at me to give them an answer in the matter of marrying Melodía off to their Crown Prince Mikael. Which she’s dead set against, not that I blame her.”
He turned his face to grin boyishly at Falk, frustrating the efforts of a servant to place a semiformal crown of gold set with rubies on his head right-way-to.
“Say, they can hardly blame me if my daughter’s not to hand, can they? I couldn’t hand her over to their fat, unwashed heir, even were I going to. Which the Creators give me strength and wisdom not to, since it’s when you have formal alliance with the Basileus that those confounded intriguers find it most convenient to put the knife in. Plus she’s not having any of it, of course.”
He shook his head. A second attempt at applying the circlet ended with it tipped at a dangerous if rakish angle forward and over one bulbous pale-green eye. The exceedingly stylized tyrant skull looked like some creature perching on His Majesty’s close-cropped head like a cat and winking at Falk.
“Strong-willed girl, that,” Felipe said. “Say, just between you and me and the wall—”
And the servants, Falk thought. Who hear everything. And repeat it to my servant.
“—be a good lad and quietly send out a stand-down on the alert, will you?
Falk managed to keep his answering smile tight-lipped, instead of splitting his beard with a foolish grin.
“As you wish,” he said.
Since I can’t hope to order the bitch killed without losing my own head, he was thinking.
Having Falk’s head off was the kindest thing that His Imperial Majesty was likely to do to him if he found out what his new security chief had done to his adored daughter while she was in his custody, and the Creators’ ban on torture be damned.
He must tread carefully—more so now than ever, precisely because of his powerful position. Most particularly he had to guard against a tendency to take Felipe for a rambling, ineffectual fool. Which error had led the Electors to choose to place his broad buttocks on the Fangèd Throne, under the misapprehension he’d be safe and do nothing to upset the Empire. Or the death grip his family, Torre Delgao, had held on the Empire’s rule since its inception.
In fact the Emperor was highly intelligent—and highly ambitious to exercise the power latent in the throne in the face of centuries of calculated inaction. His activism had sparked a rebellion among the nobles of Alemania, among them Falk himself. And his nature, impulsive yet easily led—and not eager to reconsider an action, once taken—had also set Falk on the path to his present status, once he’d presented himself at court to repent theatrically of his error and throw himself on Felipe’s mercy. Felipe did love his grand gestures.
He also loved his daughters, even though he tended to forget they existed when distracted by matters of state or his love for hunting, say. Falk’s excess, drunk with triumph as well as wine—and the sly words of his manservant—could yet cost him and his mother everything they’d worked for over the years.
&nb
sp; Still, Falk was well-pleased with the situation. Albeit not smug. And that hada Bergdahl will prevent smugness from ever gaining a foothold in me.
* * *
Rob jumped. Karyl sat up crisply.
A man stood in the doorway. He had a heroic paunch, with chest and shoulders to match or more. Coarse dark-blond hair was swept back from sun-reddened features of the sort called leonine, after the bestiaries of fabulous animals of First Home that were a favorite of every child. His green-trimmed brown tunic, tan hose, and brown suede boots were plain but clearly of expensive make. A belt supported a scabbarded broadsword. From the wear visible on the hilt it was no prop.
The town guards at the door stood deferentially away. Clearly, Rob noted, here stood a man of Consequence. Although his sheer presence would command attention regardless of his standing.
“Merchant Évrard,” Violette said. “I thought I sensed an unsavory smell.”
“Insult us as you wish,” Évrard said with a smile. “So long as you continue to pay us in the Count’s good silver, we’ll continue to feed you. Now, if it pleases the Council, allow me to rephrase: will you hear, not me, but my son, who fell sorely wounded protecting us all?”
For a moment Melchor, Longeau, and Violette looked ready to refuse. A feral growl rose from the crowd. Gaétan was popular to begin with. Whatever they felt about Karyl, the mob was eager to seize upon his unquestioned heroism despite the Blueflowers debacle. Perhaps the more so because of it.
Not leaving time for the hostile Councilors to object, youthful members of the merchant’s extended family carried in a litter. On it lay Gaétan, still deathly pallid except for a fever-flush on his cheeks. As his kinsfolk bore him to the front of the hall, the onlookers packed into the central hustled aside, not scrupling to knock one another onto those seated on the benches.
Who muttered curses but made no effort to thrust them back toward the pallet and its being carried forward. So deeply ingrained was the terror of disease, even though everyone knew the kind that sometimes followed injury wasn’t infectious. Ignoring them, the bearers set the litter on the open maroon tile floor at the foot of the dais.
