by Carol Berg
“I am bound by Crown law to render judgment in cases of suspicious death, my lord duc,” said Bastien. “If I judge a death murder and am satisfied that I know who has done it, the verdict is published to the citizenry of Palinur. The appropriate magistrate must then assess punishment. In all cases, the final arbiter is the Duc of Ardra—our own Prince Perryn.”
“Appoint a new coroner, lord,” snapped Tremayne. “No commoner should get the idea he can interpret the law or insert himself into the Prince of Navronne’s plans. He wrests his livelihood from corpses, for the gods’ sake. No doubt he’ll soon come begging for his fee—likely a prodigious fee when he aims his righteousness at Ardra’s consiliar prime.”
“This is no minor indiscretion blown to scandal,” said Fallon, pacing in a tight circle like a chained bear. “Those of us in this chamber have heard the entire sordid tale. The prince. Myself. The Ducessa de Spano.” She looked most alarmed at the mention. “That high priestess was responsible for Ysabel, and that unnatural woman debauched her. Witnesses can be found to the other deaths, I have no doubt. The gods themselves have taken pity on Ysabel and sent the pureblood these visions. What retribution might they demand do we bury the truth?”
Perryn shuddered. “Speak as you will, Coroner. Just be done quickly.”
Bastien bowed yet again—this time to Fallon as well as the coward prince. He gripped his pendant and I imagined the bang of his gavel, giving weight to his saying.
“It is my judgment that the child known as Fleure is proved to be Ysabel de Tremayne, daughter of Annitra de Rosine and an unnamed partner of the blood royal. It is my judgment that Laurent de Buld, Duc de Tremayne, is responsible for a crime that every god in every heaven deplores—the willful murder of an innocent. So say I, Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur.”
Bastien released the symbol of office, returning his hands to his back and his voice to a more natural timbre. “I have fulfilled my duty by the Crown, by the people of this city, and by the dead. The crime is verified. The guilty party is established. The preliminary report of this case has already been turned over to the chief magistrate of Palinur for recording and displayed this hour in every district square. And now, my lord prince, punishment—justice—rests in your hands.”
If a man ever looked less willing to take on such a responsibility, I could not imagine it. Perryn looked like a limp stocking tucked in upon itself. He disgusted me.
“This is lunacy!” Tremayne threw his hands up and turned his back. “I took on the hard work of power. Will you not do the same, lord? Will you throw away your triumph? For if you think you can prevail without me—”
“Silence! All of you!” The prince jumped up from his stool and wandered over to the tables and stacks. “What have I done to get so foully entangled with priestesses, children, and over-diligent servants, some of them sporting priggish purebloods? It’s as if you all conspire against me!” He shoved a pile of helmets to the floor.
As the helms clattered and bounced, the pouting ducessa refilled her wine cup. She drained it and launched the delicate vessel into the scattered armor. Then, as if her pique was satisfied, she joined Perryn and led him away from the mess.
“Sweet lord, it grieves me to see your generous heart so torn.” She drew his arm to her breast. “That poor child. Your loyal ally. That must be why the gods favor you above all men, both upholding you and testing you, so that those of us privileged to stand in your shining circle might be uplifted as well. How perfectly right that it is in your power both to do and to undo.”
She brought his hand to her lips for a soft kiss. Relinquishing his arm, she returned to her seat and folded her hands modestly in her lap.
Perryn, his back to all, wandered a little farther. Stopped. After a moment he spun sharply and returned to the wavering circle of light transformed. Standing straight and fair and sober, the light gleaming in his pale hair, he was the perfect model of noble justice. Great Kemen, Lord of Sky and Patron of Kings, let him not be just a model, but an extension of your hand. . . .
“Such a terrible crime as the murder of innocents must reap punishment.”
“My lord—!”
“Silence!” Perryn’s roar aborted Tremayne’s protest. “You need not remind me of your loyalty, Laurent, or your might, or our long history of great deeds and shared pleasures.”
Fallon held still, his steel gaze fixed on the man he served, his pain raw as any battle wound. He could not win this day, no matter how Perryn’s judgment fell.
“Coroner Bastien, we thank you for bringing this crime to our attention. Your knowledge of Navronne’s law and your firm adherence to it in face of this most difficult situation is wholly admirable, and we hereby confirm you in this post for as long as Ardra remains in our care. In the writ of confirmation, I shall stipulate severe penalties for anyone—peasant, pureblood, or noble, even my own friends—who dares threaten or enact retribution upon you for bringing a case to the fore, no matter what the magistrate’s ultimate verdict. Bear witness to this, all of you.”
Good. Unexpected. Tremayne’s jaw was near cracking with rage. Perhaps I had rushed to judgment of this prince. . . .
“As for this judgment. We are engaged in war. As Lord Tremayne has reminded us, death is ever present and sacrifice necessary. But deliberate murder of innocents is cowardly and casts an ill odor on our cause. Therefore I deem that the proper punishment for this crime is the punishment for cowardice. Laurent, Duc de Tremayne, you are hereby sentenced to be stripped and displayed in the public market alongside a description of your crime, and you shall receive fifty lashes at the hand of the captain of the Guard Royale—”
“Fifty lashes! For cowardice?” Tremayne’s rage shook the foundation of the Repository. “How can you imagine I will tolerate this? My men and I have bled for you, lord. I have killed for you.” He held his fists in front of him, ready to crush the first person who tried to drag him to a flogging post.
Fallon dropped to one knee and bowed his head, his expression unreadable. His father’s shame would cling to him until the end of days.
Bastien’s lips were pressed hard together. It was not the judgment he hoped for. Tremayne would likely not die. But the humiliation, the judgment of cowardice, and the crippling punishment would ruin such a powerful man. A victory, even if tempered.
Satisfaction filled my own spirit. Questions answered. A resolution. Rightness. If only somehow we could persuade Perryn to judge Irinyi and Motre Varouna . . .
“However”—Perryn’s abrupt continuation brought every head up—“Palinur is under siege, or soon will be. In the hour before I came here, I received word that my traitorous brother and his legions will be camped at Palinur’s gates within days. Every hand, every sword, and every cadre will be needed in service to Ardra and Navronne. Therefore all civil judgments are suspended indefinitely, this to be proclaimed throughout Palinur by dawn tomorrow. So say I, Perryn, Duc of Ardra, Prince of Navronne.”
As if in a flash of magefire, hope was transformed to ash. Rightness to jarring corruption. Appalling, despicable . . .
Both Tremayne and his kneeling son gawped at the prince, who preened at his cleverness.
Fallon moved first and dropped his gaze, arms crossed on his breast, fists clenched, as if to collect and contain the fragments of his beliefs.
The duc’s stormy countenance began to glow. Perryn would be king, perhaps this very night. No one who stood with him would suffer the inconvenience of a murder judgment. Tremayne dropped to his knees and bent his back. “I am, as ever, your devoted ally.”
Perryn wagged a finger, his mistress already distracting him. And so when Tremayne rose again, the duc’s gimlet gaze and twisted smile was all for Bastien and me. Kings could pardon capital crimes. Kings could even forgive acts of vengeance against upstart coroners or arrogant purebloods. Perryn’s promise to protect Bastien held no more worth than the Registry’s vow to heal my “madness.”
The power to do and to undo. A kno
wing smile teased the ducessa’s generous lips, as she drew the prince close. He plunged his fingers into her red-gold hair and stroked her jaw and neck with his thumbs. Not gently, but she didn’t seem to mind. She held his wine to his lips.
What a fool! Perryn believed he ruled her . . . all of us. He believed himself handsome and clever. He believed his parentage made him kingly. But even an inexperienced pureblood could see the truth. He had deceived everyone in Palinur, himself not least.
Tremayne laid a heavy hand on his kneeling son’s shoulder. Forgiveness, reconciliation . . . or another warning? Were I Fallon de Tremayne, I would make sure to keep out of range of my father’s archers, lest one of them mistake me for the enemy.
“No, no, no . . .” The snarling denial resonated in my soul, but it was given voice in a whisper behind me . . . and then beside . . . as Bastien moved forward. “You lily-livered wastrel. You sniveling, mindless, murdering moron. You poisonous excrement of greater men. You—”
Before anyone could hear, I wrapped my arms around the coroner from behind and dragged him deep into the shadows. Clamping a hand over his mouth, I hissed into his ear, “Your life is worthy. Your death will not bring back the dead. Or justice.”
He growled and wrestled inside his skin, but not with me; he could have burst my hold with one harsh thrust. He wanted to. Gods’ grace, how he wanted to.
“Listen to me,” I said. “We must get out before Tremayne turns on us. Before Hugh de Orrin or Varouna runs to the Registry with reports of a mad pureblood, or Irinyi sends her temple guards to put knives in our backs. We have a bargain. I’ve a mystery to solve tomorrow, and I need your help. Now bow and thank him, or I’ll conjure your prick into a dog’s tail.”
Though breathing as hard as if we’d battled, his muscles stilled and I let go.
“You speak,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I dare not.”
And so we approached the would-be king, and when he could unlatch his attention from his fawning mistress and his wine, I offered a modest deference. Bastien dropped to one knee, eyes down.
“Our duty is done, lord prince,” I said in my chilliest hauteur. “The law is satisfied. Final justice shall await the day of Navronne’s safety, for which we all petition our gods. Accept our gratitude for your forbearance. My master is yet speechless at your generous appointment and will strive to be worthy of it as he seeks justice for the dead.”
“A toast to the balance of justice and those who serve it.” Perryn raised his cup, tottering a bit. How many had he downed? “We visit the Registry tomorrow, Remeni. I’ll sing your praises to the curators.”
My throat clotted. “Unnecessary, my good lord. Tomorrow is the day to honor my grandsire. I’d not distract attention from his memory.”
“Perhaps I’ll tell old Gramphier I want you. I’d wager I could wrest your contract from this worthy coroner. Then I’d install you here to dispose of this flotsam and send you off to find me barbarian treasures.”
Perryn did not wait for my appalled response. He and his ducessa were already tittering at some private jest as they strolled toward the bronze doors where a smug Tremayne awaited them.
Fallon had sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, a sculpture of cold steel, not warm bronze. As Bastien fetched our rucksack, I approached the young lord, halting at a respectful distance, feeling the necessity to speak though I’d no idea what to say.
“Did she suffer overmuch?” he said, before I could begin.
“It happened very quickly from his arrival to her death. But she was her grandsire’s worthy descendant. She fought bravely and with all her strength. Yet she was dead before he threw her down the rampart. I hope that is some comfort.”
“None.” He did not look up. “She was a merry sprite. I knew early on she wasn’t Father’s. But I never suspected . . . I should have seen it. I could have shielded her.”
“Would you like to have her portrait? I could copy it for you, as true as the first. I could make it small, easy to carry.”
He glanced up, his eyes lance points. “Not the first. I will ever recall her well enough as I knew her. But I’d like a copy of the other one, the one with the bloody shift. For now, I’ve no choice but to forget everything you’ve said of this matter. But when the time is right, I’ll pull out that drawing and release what I must bury tonight. If the gods have not wrought justice by that day, I will.”
“Good enough,” I said. “After tomorrow, find Constance at Necropolis Caton. She’ll have the portrait for you, and she can show you where the child is laid.”
He nodded and looked away. “Beware. My father, as you’ve seen, bows to neither sentiment nor the law.”
I left Fallon to bury his sister and his hatred. So unlikely an encounter. I’d not forget him.
Bastien fidgeted beside the door, his sword already in hand. “There’s arguing just outside. Hope you’ve magics to scare off some angry partisans.”
The Xancheiran spindle remained tucked inside my doublet. I would have to leave the painted chest and the rest of its secrets here for the time. One more regret among many.
“Better we use the back door.”
CHAPTER 31
Bastien and I crept from the rear of the Antiquities Repository and scuttered through the hedge garden like startled hinds, keeping as far as we could from Perryn’s lancers . . . and the four men in black and white arguing with them. Black and white, the Duc de Tremayne’s personal colors. A chill, foggy night, and I was already sweating.
Once away from the Repository, we slowed to a steady—unremarkable—pace. People stepped aside to let me pass. Bastien kept a few paces back so none would guess we were together.
There were far too many people and too much torchlight for the quiet departure we’d planned. Eights and tens of servants and courtiers choked every nook and colonnade. The excitement was yet spoken in whispers. I’ve heard . . . It’s said . . . Rumor is . . . Closeted in the chancellor’s chambers . . . The Ardran son always favored . . . The Smith’s bound to give up the claim . . . No more war . . . The gods will be appeased.
They were wrong. Even if my suspicions about the newfound will proved incorrect, villeins would still face fields of frozen mud at sowing time and plagues at hearth and sheepfold. The decline of the world had begun before Eodward’s death.
A blast of damp wind swirled the smoke of torches and roasting meat. I shivered.
A skeletal young man, leaning heavily on a stick instead of a right leg, stood gossiping with two grizzled veterans at the apex of an arched bridge. If the conflict ended, at least the bloodshed and maiming might stop.
Just past the bridge and a columned arch, a steep stair led down to the inner bailey. I stepped into a niche between the arch and a wall to wait for Bastien. We had a new problem.
“Holy gods, do you smell that smoke? I’m going to drown in my own slobber,” he said, slipping in beside me. “I didn’t think there was meat to be had in the city.”
He abruptly shoved me deeper into the niche. A quartet of men in temple livery hurried past in the direction of the Repository. My own stomach ground with nausea more than hunger.
“You need to get out of that cloak and mask,” said Bastien. “Tremayne’s livery is everywhere, and now the priestess’s, too.”
“Not just them, I’m afraid,” I said. “Look down at the wicket gate. The Registry’s here as well.”
Our position offered a good view of the brightly lit courtyard below. Vielles and hurdy-gurdies sawed raucous tunes for a dancing, eating, laughing mob. Two pureblood servitors flanked the narrow gate we had to traverse from the inner to the outer bailey. They were deathly sober.
“We could make our way round to the postern. Might be fewer people between.”
“Masked, disguised, naked, west gate, postern—it doesn’t matter,” I said. “If they’ve come for me, they’ll recognize me—and you—and they’ll be watching every gate.”
“So we need a distraction. As you didn’
t blast the royal snake and his murdering friend into Magrog’s hells, you’ve magic to use, right?”
“The problem is what to do with it.” I didn’t like what I was thinking. “I suppose I could lead them off while you get through. I could circle around, get back, release my fog enchantment, and run through the wicket before they catch me up.”
His skeptical grimace reflected my own opinion. “Constance could come up with a better plan! You’d never get back in time. And what if there are more of them waiting in the outer bailey? I think one of those void holes would do us better.” Bastien had yearned to see a void hole since I’d told him of my grand enchantment in the temple.
“No. Firstly, I’d have to lay it down right under their noses. And secondly, if it’s too big or too deep, it’s going to kill someone when the ground caves. Thirdly, if it’s close enough to snag the guards, we’d not be able to get past it to get out the gate, while smaller and farther away is useless, as they’ll never leave their post just to gawk, unless . . .”
I truly didn’t like what I was thinking. Timing would be everything.
“Back by the parapet was a young man with a walking stick,” I said abruptly. “Buy it from him before he gets away. Just do it. And leave me the rucksack.”
He grumbled but didn’t question, which marked a level of trust I hoped would prove out.
While he bulled his way back the way we’d come, I squeezed deeper into the dark space between column and wall. From the rucksack I dragged the ugly brown cape. From under my doublet I pulled out the small canvas-wound spindle I’d snatched from the Xancheiran chest. No time to unlock its stinging enchantments just now. The spindle went into the bottom of the sack. The brown cape I draped over the wine-hued wool I wore, tucking the pureblood cloak out of sight. Then I yanked off my mask.
The common penalty for being caught out of dress in the presence of ordinaries was a caning before representatives of ten pureblood families. I’d heard the punishment was sufficiently painful to ensure no repetition of the offense, and certainly did not wish to test what the uncommon version of it might be. But that was my least worry just now.
