by Emma Newman
“William, what are you saying?” Bartholomew finally replied. “What happened to Catherine? Is she well?”
“She almost died. You sent an assassin to kill my wife and it’s my right to demand you step down and answer for your crime.”
Bartholomew stood, rested a hand briefly on Margritte’s shoulder and went to the edge of the dais. “William, I did no such thing. I have no idea what madness has possessed you to walk in here minutes after I’ve been declared Duke and accuse me of an utterly despicable act, but I beg you to withdraw to a private room with myself and the Marquis to discuss what has happened.”
“There is no need to discuss anything. I know you’re responsible and, if you will not step down, then I claim the right to challenge the throne by combat.”
Bartholomew’s eyes were wide with horror as Freddy muscled his way to the front. “What is this nonsense?” he boomed, dropping his huge hand on Will’s shoulder. “Has the devil taken you? You’re making a fool of yourself, even I can see that. The Duke has been generous enough to give you a way to withdraw. Be grateful, young blood, and take the offer.”
“Remove your hand, sir,” Will said through his teeth. “This has nothing to do with you.”
Viola tutted, shaking his head. “I just don’t like to see a young lad lose badly.”
Will rounded on him. “He tried to kill my wife!” His voice rang off the mirrors, amplified by the dreadful hush of the assembled. “It’s my right, damn it.” He looked at the Marquis. “You know this is true!”
Digitalis tugged at his cravat, his face pink at the sudden attention. “There is a precedent,” he said to Bartholomew. “If a challenge to the throne is made in open Court, the Duke must respond. If it’s resolved by combat and the challenger is victorious, he has the right to take the Dukedom.”
The words elicited a roar of speculation. Will shut it out as best he could to study Bartholomew’s face. His forehead shone with sweat and he was determined to maintain his act of the innocent wrongly accused. Bartholomew looked back at his wife, whose eyes were shining with tears, and then looked down at Will. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from this course of action?”
“No.”
“Then I must respond to your accusation. I did not send an assassin to kill your wife, William. There is nothing in this world that would make me commit such a heinous act. But whoever has convinced you of this has been most persuasive. I have no choice but to accept your challenge.”
“Bartholomew, don’t pay attention to the whelp,” Freddy said, but the Duke held up his hand.
“I cannot ignore this.” He looked at the Marquis. “Here and now?”
“Yes, your Grace. A direct challenge to the throne requires an immediate duel to the death.”
Margritte was on her feet. “William, think of your wife, she needs you.”
“Don’t assume I’ll lose,” Will said. He tossed his frock coat aside, drew his sword and stepped towards the centre of the room.
The crowd drew back to the edges as Bartholomew lifted off the heavy ducal livery collar of golden oak leaves and laid it reverently on the throne. He then went to Margritte, bent down and kissed her. The tenderness of the act irritated Will. He carved a figure-of-eight in the air with his rapier and the whooshing of the blade through the air satisfied him.
Will tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t trained properly for several weeks. He did his best to block out Freddy’s pitying look and Bartholomew’s total confidence as he removed his jacket, drew his rapier and came down into the centre of the room. He looked sad, as if he had to put a favourite pet down, rather than fight off a serious contender to the throne and defend his honour.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Will.” He took his position opposite. “We could have been very good friends.”
Will remained silent. He had to use his boons wisely or he was going to die. He held up the hilt in front of his face, tip of the sword pointing to the ceiling, to indicate he was ready. Bartholomew shook his head sadly and then mirrored the movement before easing into a comfortable on-guard stance. His back was straight, shoulders relaxed, sword in his right hand.
There was a predictable exchange. Bartholomew was limbering up and testing his responses. Will remembered countless sparring matches with Nathaniel, who accompanied every one of his mistakes with an insult. Nathaniel was an expert in ridiculing whilst fighting, something Will had always wanted to be able to do with the same aplomb. He’d found it impossible to develop such a skill when constantly on the receiving end. What it did teach him, however, was not to be distracted by anything said once the fight had begun.
Seeing an opening, Will went in with an attack. Bartholomew anticipated it and parried expertly, answering with a riposte that sliced into Will’s shirt.
“Excellent, Barty!” Freddy shouted.
Bartholomew backed off and Will stole a glance at the cut fabric. There was a tiny amount of blood and no pain. That slice should have cut him badly. One down, two left.
Bartholomew had moved far more quickly than he should have and Will knew he had employed a Charm, no doubt one of many at his disposal. Will just had to hit him once, just once, but every time he moved to strike he was parried or his blade thrust into air after Bartholomew had expertly side-stepped.
“Regret it now, boy?” Freddy heckled.
“Quiet, Freddy,” Bartholomew said. “This isn’t the time.”
Will parried an attack, evaded another and very narrowly parried a third. He was working at the peak of his ability whilst Bartholomew was just warming up.
“I didn’t send anyone to kill Catherine,” Bartholomew said. “How you could think I would do such a thing I will never understand.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have much longer to ponder the question,” Will replied and Freddy roared with laughter.
Bartholomew smiled and then his blade was slashing Will’s chest. It happened so fast Bartholomew was withdrawing before Will even realised he’d been hit. Again, his opponent gave him the chance to see the wound. His shirt was so badly cut his chest was mostly exposed along with a pale red mark, like a scratch from a cat. A single drop of blood was running towards his belly button. He only had one more left.
Bartholomew raised an eyebrow. “Your patron favours you, it seems.”
“He understands my desire to protect my family and see justice done.”
“Is he cheating, Barty?” Freddy boomed.
“No,” Bartholomew replied. “He’s fortunate, that’s all.”
Another flurry of attacks and parries. Will felt his shirt clinging to his back as sweat rolled down it. He tried to recall all the times he’d managed to strike Nathaniel; there’d been so few of them he could usually remember them with little effort. Now his life was in the balance it was harder, but one did surface.
It was, on the face of it, no more than a traditional feint. It was the lead-up that had snared Nathaniel and it wasn’t something that Will had intended. He’d got angry, slashed ineffectually and then decided to give up. Then he’d noticed Nathaniel lowered his guard, just for a second and he exploited it. Nathaniel gave him a gash on the arm and a good beating in return, but it had been worth it.
Will waited for the next attack and defended himself but pretended to foul up his footwork.
“You’ve got him scared, Barty!” Freddy called out, just as Will predicted he would, and in response he launched himself forward with a flurry of furious attacks. None got through Bartholomew’s expert defence but they were enough to give the impression of desperation.
Will retreated, letting himself pant audibly. Freddy jeered and Will concentrated on letting his shoulders drop, making his stance loose and his expression hopeless.
Bartholomew looked like a man who wanted to be elsewhere. “This is pointless.” He glanced up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer in the heavens. It was the moment Will had been hoping for and he lunged forward with the perfect strike. Any other man w
ould have been run through but Bartholomew twisted in time to reduce the injury to a cut on his stomach.
It was enough.
To everyone else Bartholomew would just look shaken, natural when injured for the first time in a duel, especially one in which the abilities were so mismatched. But Will could see his eyes glaze and his grip on his sword altered, as if he was doubting the feedback from his hand. Poppy had promised an instant effect and he hadn’t exaggerated.
Bartholomew blinked rapidly, adjusted his stance and made an attack but it was slower and Will parried it easily. It was like fighting someone of his own ability instead of a man with over two hundred years of experience on him and Charms to speed his reflexes. Will felt a rush of confidence, then reined it in. The duel wasn’t over yet and he could only survive one more strike before he was completely on his own.
He lunged and Bartholomew parried, but he had to work hard to do it in time. Attack, parry, riposte; Will could see Poppy’s opiate charm taking hold. Will feinted then stepped in and ran Bartholomew through, just as his blade skewered Will an inch above his hip. They were caught on each other’s blades briefly, then Bartholomew staggered backwards and Will pulled his blade from his gut.
Margritte’s screams filled the room as her husband collapsed, his sword still stuck in Will’s side. Will pulled the blade out and laid it at Bartholomew’s feet, marvelling at the lack of pain.
As Bartholomew’s blood pooled Will felt his thigh muscles twitch, his heartbeat deafening. The Marquis rushed to Bartholomew’s side and both Freddy and Margritte pushed people out of the way as they closed in around him and Will.
The Tulipa’s rattling breath could be heard when Margritte reached him, her screams dying in her throat as she fell to her knees at his side.
“Will.” Bartholomew reached towards him with a hand covered in his own blood.
Will approached, taking care to keep away from Freddy, who looked ready to throttle him.
“I’m here.”
“I didn’t send anyone to kill Catherine. I swear it. On my family’s honour, on the life of my wife and children.”
Will clenched his jaw as a flicker of panic rose up from his gut. “My sources say otherwise.”
“Lies,” Bartholomew whispered and his head lolled towards Margritte.
Will stepped back, not wanting to overhear the last words spoken between man and wife. Freddy was glaring at him and Will faced him fully.
“Say it.”
“You’ve done a terrible thing, William Iris,” Freddy growled. “A terrible thing.”
A guttural moan from Margritte told him Bartholomew had died. He straightened. “I acted with my Patron’s blessing and I saw justice done for my family. If you or anyone else here has a problem with that, you’re setting yourself against not only me but the entirety of the Iris family.”
Freddy was a social oaf, but it seemed he was no fool when it came to picking fights. He knew that if he took his grievance further in public, he would drag his family into a war without the support of his elders or his patron. Freddy settled back into a steady glowering, then wrenched his gaze away from Will to Bartholomew and his face twisted in grief.
The Marquis cleared his throat and made his way back to the dais. The assembled watched him in stunned silence as Margritte’s awful sobbing filled the room. Will looked at the throne and tried to think only of Lord Iris and how pleased he would be, anything to try and block the sound out.
“In accordance with ancient law,” the Marquis began in a tremulous voice, “the Ducal seat of Londinium passes to the successful challenger who proved his right to rule with victory in combat.”
He beckoned to Will who walked up the steps. Bartholomew’s blood was drying on his blade, his shirt was slashed and he smelt of sweat.
“I, the Marquis of Westminster, do hereby recognise William Reticulata-Iris as the Duke of Londinium, granting him the rights and privileges of the rulership of Londinium. If there are any here who will not recognise his right to take the throne, speak now.”
Will held his breath as the Londinium Court stared at him in silence. A man bearing a strong family resemblance to Freddy was in close conference with him; Will assumed he was counselling Freddy to remain silent. He looked at the Peonia who had been so stubborn, now looking at the floor uncomfortably. The Wisteria contingent were frantically whispering to each other.
But no one spoke out. Will was under no illusion that he was being welcomed by the Court; they all knew Iris had personally supported his challenge.
Satisfied that form had been kept, the Marquis retrieved the collar from the throne and placed it on Will’s shoulders. It was reassuringly heavy and Will appreciated that he had succeeded.
“Long live the Duke of Londinium,” the Marquis hailed as Will sat on the throne. The Court echoed the call but Will suspected they’d cheered louder when Bartholomew had ascended earlier that evening. He looked out over their faces and saw no warmth, no respect. He watched Margritte being guided out of the room as Freddy laid his cloak over Bartholomew’s body. Will knew the battle for Londinium had only just begun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank Jennifer Udden of DMLA once again for great feedback on an early draft of this book and also Lee Harris, my wonderful editor at Angry Robot Books. Both of you made this book so much better.
Big thanks to Kate for the hours of listening to me read this book aloud, for laughing at the right bits and gasping when Will did something she didn't expect!
I'd also like to thank my husband, Peter, for… well, everything really.
Lastly, but certainly not least (I so want to say leastly but I must resist), I'd like to thank my Mum for spotting a rather glaring error – the sort that would have come back to haunt me a thousand times over on the internet, no doubt. Thanks Mum!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emma Newman was born in a tiny coastal village in Cornwall during one of the hottest summers on record. Four years later she started to write stories and never stopped until she penned a short story that secured her a place at Oxford University to read Experimental Psychology.
In 2011 Emma embarked on an ambitious project to write and distribute one short story per week – all of them set in her Split Worlds milieu – completely free to her mailing list subscribers.
A debut short-story collection, From Dark Places, was published in 2011 and her debut post-apocalyptic novel for young adults, 20 Years Later, was published just one year later – presumably Emma didn’t want to wait another nineteen… Emma is also a professional audiobook narrator.
She now lives in Somerset with her husband, son and far too many books.
enewman.co.uk
twitter.com/EmApocalyptic
Read over fifty short stories by Emma based in the Split Worlds at
SplitWorlds.com
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Tiptoe through the Tulips
An Angry Robot paperback original 2013
Copyright © Emma Newman 2013
Cover art by Sarah J Coleman (inkymole.com)
Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978 0 85766 324 5
Contents
Any Other Name
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Imprint
