by Angus Wells
She came with two Militiamen, their expressions scornful as they ignored the obscene suggestions echoing their footsteps. They halted outside Flysse’s cell, waiting as the wardress applied her key and flung open the cage. Flysse saw that one held manacles, and in her sudden nervousness came close to giggling that it be thought needful she go chained. Perhaps they feared she should attack them. But manacled she was, wrists and ankles fettered, a chain between her legs that caught up her skirts immodestly and made her totter as they brought her from the cell and up the old stone steps to the hall beyond.
She asked them, “Where are we going?” and had back a curt, “To court,” after which she had no time for questions. Nor did she see any point in pleas, so stern were their faces.
She had not known the courtroom stood above the cells until she was brought in and ushered to a walled stand raised some three steps from the floor. Sudden fear rendered her giddy, and she set her hands upon the ledge before her, only to gasp and snatch them back as the magic in the hexes there burned her palms. Through watered eyes she saw a small, thin man dressed all in red-edged black seated behind a high desk. He wore a powdered wig and she assumed him to be the judge. There was another official she did not know was a tipstaff, and the only other person present was Armnory Schweiz, his face masked with bandages. He did not look at her.
“You are Flysse Cobal, formerly employed in the tavern named the Flying Horse?”
The judge’s voice rasped like a file drawn across protesting metal. It sounded to Flysse as hard. She said, “I am. I—”
“Silence.” The judge raised a hand. “It is true that some nine days ago you attacked Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz of the God’s Militia?”
“No!” she cried. “That’s not true!”
“You deny you struck the lieutenant violently in the face with a tankard?”
There was no hint of sympathy, only a dry indifference tinged with boredom and irritation.
Flysse said, “No … yes, I struck him, but …”
The judge looked up from the papers spread before him and fixed Flysse with an angry glare. “Young woman, do you answer me aye or nay, and no more save I tell you so. Confine yourself to only that, else it shall go harder with you.”
“But,” said Flysse, and fell silent in face of his pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
“You confess that you did strike the lieutenant?”
“Aye,” said Flysse.
“Thereby inflicting considerable injuries to both his person and the dignity of the uniform he wears.”
Flysse was not sure whether a question was asked or a statement made, so she remained silent. She was trying hard not to cry now; she wished there were some friendly face in the room.
The judge glanced at his papers, then at Schweiz. “Lieutenant, do you describe your injuries.”
Schweiz rose to his feet. “My lord, my nose was broken and four of my teeth shattered.” His voice was thick and lisping. “Also, she scratched me and struck me about the head.”
“And you were at the time in the uniform of the God’s Militia?”
“I was.”
“And was there any justification for this attack?”
“My Lord, there was not.”
“Liar!” Flysse could not help it: she must protest. “He’s lying! He molested me. He said—”
The judge motioned at the two Militiamen standing behind Flysse. Abruptly she felt her arms seized, and before she could turn her jaws and secured in place about her neck. She gagged, afraid of choking now. Tears ran helplessly down her cheeks and she thought she should likely faint.
“So,” the judge declared, “without provocation an attack was launched on an officer of the Autarchy. A grave offence, indeed, and one demanding of a grave penalty.” He looked at Flysse with eyes cold as winter ice. “Do you heed me, Flysse Cobal.”
To her surprise, she did. Her ears were ringing and she fought the impulse to vomit against the gag. Her eyes were blurred with tears, but somehow she still saw the spiteful face clear and clearly heard the sentence pronounced.
“I decree that you shall be sent into exile. To Salvation, where you shall be indentured for the remainder of your life.”
The last thing Flysse saw before she fainted was Armnory Schweiz smiling as best he could with his ruined mouth.
7 Honor Betrayed
“La!”
As he said it, Arcole Blayke lunged forward, driving his sword almost casually past the defending blade, the point entering his opponent’s chest. The viscount Ferristan gasped, an expression of absolute disbelief clouding his face. As he withdrew the rapier, Arcole wondered why they always looked surprised. God knew, they engaged in the duel with the intention of killing the other man—that was his own purpose; what point else?—but seemed never to think they might themselves be harmed. Always, that look of disbelief.
He stepped a pace back, blade lowered as the viscount tottered, frowning, and opened his mouth. Had he intended to speak, he was not successful; instead, he emitted only a coughing sound and fell on his face. Arcole shook a kerchief loose from his sleeve and wiped his blade, handing both cloth and sword to his second.
Dom said, “A fair fight, fairly won,” in a voice intended to carry to Ferristan’s men as they rolled their master onto his back and shouted for the surgeon to come forward.
Softer, to Arcole, he said, “But even so, best you lie low awhile, or even quit Levan. The House Ferristan has friends in high places.”
“He called me out,” Arcole returned, extending his arms to take the jacket a servant offered. “He impugned my honor, and it was he issued the challenge.”
“Even so,” said Dom.
“Is the aristocracy entirely without honor now?” Arcole demanded. “The fight was fair—and witnessed. What reasonable charge might be brought?”
“Does the Autarchy need a reason?” Dom gave him back, cautiously modulating his voice that none save Arcole hear him. “Those blackgarbed bastards make their own rules since the Restitution.”
“And forget the ancient laws of Levan?” Arcole shrugged, idly studying the surgeon’s fruitless attempt to restore life to the dead. “Surely not, my friend.”
“God!” Dom shook his head, thinking his own efforts to instill some measure of caution in Arcole were useless as the surgeon’s. “The House Ferristan walks hand in hand with the Autarchy. His father”—this with a nod toward the corpse—“entertains the governor to dinner. Think you he’s not their ear? Or that he’ll forgive this?”
Arcole shrugged again and beckoned a servant, who passed him a cup. He drank the brandy and sighed contentedly. The surgeon rose from his labors to pronounce, officially, that Luis, viscount of House Ferristan, was dead. Dom, addressing the Ferristan seconds, said, “The fight was fair, no? You stand witness to that.”
The Ferristan seconds gave no reply, only looked dour and nervous as they lifted up their dead master and bore him away to his carriage.
“You saw it, no?” Dom turned to the surgeon, wiping blood from his hands. “There can be no question, eh?”
“No.” The surgeon shook his balding head vigorously. “No, none. The duel was fought fair.”
“And is he questioned by Ferristan men or the Autarchy’s lackeys,” Dom said, eyeing the surgeon’s retreating back, “he’ll swear the opposite with equal enthusiasm.”
Arcole smiled. “You grow cynical, old friend.”
“I grow realistic,” said Dom. “And I’d wish the God gifted you with as much sense.”
“But he did not,” Arcole declared. “He gave me a certain skill with a blade and as much with the cards. I thank him for that, and that I’ve yet some notion of honor.”
“Notions of honor,” said Dom, “are oftimes the cerements of the foolish.”
“Do you name me a fool?”
Dom shook his head: friend though he was, Arcole Blayke was no less unpredictable. And, to say the least, incautious. A gambler and a duelist—both of repute—he did
not go unnoticed by Levan’s new masters. He made, Dom thought, no attempt at caution; rather, he flaunted his habits. And in these years since the Evanderans had conquered Levan, such habits were disapproved of. The Autarchy had scant affection for such independent spirits—and a way of rendering them docile. He wished Arcole might make himself less noticeable, but then he’d not be Arcole. Dom sighed, knowing he’d as well beat his head against a rock.
“Still, a … holiday … might be advisable,” he said. “There are salons in Bantar, no?”
“Rubbish.” Arcole set a companionable arm about Dom’s shoulders, steering the smaller man toward their carriage. “I’ve too many friends here; and what should I do in the very seat of those glum God’s men? Why, I’d languish in Bantar.”
Dom sighed and shrugged, abandoning the attempt, and allowed his friend to hand him into the coach.
Inside, Arcole leant back against the velvet plush of the seats. The carriage rocked, the matched pair moving eagerly to the coachman’s bidding, drawing the phaeton over the rutted track to the paved road beyond. They passed through the city gates and came to the hotel in which Arcole had taken rooms. It was amongst the finest, all painted panels and crystal chandeliers—memories of a time before the Restitution, before Evander had conquered the surrounding countries and the Autarchy established its governors and their Militia, puppet masters holding the strings of a tamed and toylike class that now ruled solely in name. Save, Dom thought as the carriage was dismissed and they entered the luxurious foyer, that some had the ear of the true rulers and might well be heard, did they whine loud enough.
Arcole called him from his gloomy musings with a hand on his shoulder. “Breakfast? I confess myself quite famished.” He seemed to have forgotten the duel. Was it so easy to dismiss the taking of a man’s life, Dom wondered. But he kept the thought to himself and only nodded.
As they made their way to their customary table, conversation ceased a moment, then started up again, louder. Heads turned toward them—or, more correctly, Dom thought, toward Arcole. He saw admiration on some faces, disapproval on many others. That Arcole Blayke fought a duel that morning was common knowledge amongst the patrons of the Hotel Dumoyas. Before the morning was out, it would be known across the city that the viscount Ferristan was dead. Dom saw money change hands, and marveled that there were yet folk foolish enough to wager on Arcole’s defeat.
At his side, Arcole was bowing and murmuring greetings, his smile sunny; Dom saw more than one lady return that smile with an unspoken invitation. He, too, ducked his head and voiced pleasantries, but that was only formality: attention was focused on his companion. He was not at all surprised, nor any longer put out—he was not unhandsome, but Arcole was possessed of a charisma that surpassed mere looks, though he had those in abundance as well. The God had favored him with more than just skill with a sword and cards, and if he lacked a measure of common sense, then that vacancy was balanced with charm and wit and education and … (Dom had sometimes amused himself by compiling a list of Arcole Blayke’s winning characteristics. It had proved a long list.)
They reached their table and allowed a waiter to seat them. Arcole ordered a bottle of Levan’s famous sparkling wine; Dom asked for coffee. They agreed on deviled kidneys and kedgeree, fresh fruit and toast. As they ate—Arcole with the appetite he’d claimed—Dom was aware of the eyes that shifted constantly in their direction.
“They wonder at your future,” he remarked, “what measures House Ferristan will take.”
“What measures can be taken?” Arcole returned. “Luis was their only decent swordsman. Think you they’ll hire some mercenary?”
His smile suggested he found the notion amusing, the likelihood a hired sword could defeat him ridiculous. Dom only sighed and shook his head.
Arcole washed down a mouthful of kidneys with a measure of wine, dabbed a napkin to his mouth, and said, “I’ve promised young Alleyn Silvestre a hand of cards this noonday. Shall you join us?”
“You’ve an appointment with your tailor,” Dom reminded him.
“Of course.” Arcole pushed away his emptied plate. “But there’s time enough before I relieve Alleyn of more coin.”
“And we’re to attend the duchess this evening.”
“Dear Madelyne, yes.” Arcole nodded solemnly. “I’d not forgotten, but I doubt it will take me long to empty Alleyn’s purse.”
“The Duchess Fendralle would be a valuable ally,” Dom remarked. “Did the count of Ferristan bring some charge, her affections might prove most useful.”
“Her affections? Do you suggest I bed her, Dom?” Arcole’s brows rose in feigned surprise. “Why, she’s almost old enough to be my mother, nor gifted with much in the way of looks! And what of the duke?”
“A husband,” Dom murmured in answer, “has never stopped you before.”
“True enough,” Arcole acknowledged cheerfully, “but I think not Madelyne.”
“At least sweet-talk her?” Dom asked. “And young Silvestre, might you not let him win a hand or two?”
“Dom,” said Arcole, “you worry too much. I tell you, nothing will come of Ferristan’s demise. Levan’s known duels too long; the Autarchy will take no notice of this morning’s squabble. So, do we attend the tailor?”
They returned to the hotel to find Alleyn Silvestre awaiting them with three companions, but before the cards were dealt a commotion in the foyer caught Dom’s attention. It went unnoticed by the players until he saw the scarlet uniforms of Militiamen appear in the doorway of the gaming room and coughed a warning.
Arcole glanced around. Dom gestured toward the captain advancing at the head of ten men, all bearing muskets save the officer. He wore only a saber, a pistol, and an expression of grim resolution.
Arcole set down his cards as the captain said, “Arcole Blayke? I’ve a warrant for your arrest.”
“On what charge?” Arcole demanded.
His tone suggested a mistake was made, and the officer scowled as he fumbled in his sabertache for a document bearing the heavy seal of the Autarchy. Unfolding the sheet, he intoned: “That you did, in the early hours of this morning, take the life of Luis, viscount Ferristan. And for that offense—”
“Offense? It was a duel! And fought honestly.”
Arcole was genuinely outraged. The captain ignored his protest. “You confess, before witnesses, that you slew the viscount?”
Dom said, “There were witnesses to the duel. I’m one; there were others.”
“Indeed,” the captain said. “Who shall all, in due course, give testimony. You are?”
“Dom Freydmon,” said Dom.
The captain nodded. “Doubtless you’ll attend the hearing, ’sieur Freydmon. Meanwhile”—he turned his attention back to Arcole—“you, ’sieur, will come with me.”
Alleyn Silvestre said, “This is ridiculous! All Levan knows Arcole fought Ferristan; all Levan knows it was a fair fight. Arcole would not have it otherwise.”
“My thanks,” Arcole said, smiling.
“You saw it?” the captain asked, and when Silvestre shook his head: “Then I’d suggest you hold your tongue, else you’ll accompany this duelist to the cells.”
“The cells?” Arcole sprang to his feet, right hand touching the hilt of his rapier. “You’d jail me like some common criminal?”
Dom cried a warning as the ten muskets were cocked and raised to fix their sights on Arcole’s chest.
“Or shoot you down,” said the captain, “do you not come peaceably.”
“I’ve committed no crime,” Arcole protested. “In the God’s name, is this Evanderan justice?”
“You question Evander’s justice?” The captain’s eyes fixed hard on Arcole’s face. “You’d add that to the catalogue of your crimes?”
“I’d claim my innocence.”
Arcole’s hand closed on his sword’s hilt. Dom said, “Arcole, no! Go with them—I’ll find an advocate.”
“Your friend”—the captain managed to make it
an insult—“gives sound advice. Now, do you give me your blade, or do I take it from you?”
Arcole said, “Alone you could not, ’sieur. Dismiss your men and try to take it.”
“Threatening the life of an officer of the God’s Militia is another offense,” the captain replied, “punishable by execution!”
“He did not threaten you,” Dom said. “That was an invitation.”
“The court shall decide,” the captain promised. “Now, ’sieur, I grow impatient. Do you obey me, or shall you die here?”
Dom said, “You’ve no chance, Arcole! Go with them. An advocate shall surely have you loose ere dusk.”
“And we’ve the duchess’s soirée to attend, eh?” Arcole smiled with far more confidence than Dom felt. “Indeed, I’d not miss that. So, shall we settle this ridiculous matter?”
He took his hand from the rapier and, with his left, loosed the belt. The captain took the proffered sword and nodded at the door. A crowd was gathered there, Dom saw, thankful the Militiaman did not attempt to cuff or bind Arcole.
“Gentlemen.” Arcole bowed to young Silvestre and his companions. “It seems you shall keep your money today.”
“It shall be spent on an advocate,” Silvestre declared.
Arcole smiled and turned to the impatient captain. “So, do you lead the way?”
The captain glowered, motioning for his men to hold their muskets ready as he marched from the gaming room. Dom watched them go before he asked urgently, “Alleyn, you’ve the name of a reliable advocate?”
At least, Arcole reflected, Dom had managed to bribe his jailers so that he need not appear before the court disheveled and shabby as some common criminal. Indeed, as he stood in the box reserved for the accused, Arcole decided he was the best-dressed man in the room—save for the manacles about his wrists and ankles. They quite spoiled the hang of his cuffs, and likely scored his polished boots beyond repair. No matter; as soon as these tiresome formalities were dispensed, he would rid himself of the court take their places and the tipstaff call the chamber to order, arrange a celebration at which all memories of this interlude would be ritually burned. That should certainly be amusing, and as the charge against him was read, he began to compile a list of guests.
