by Vox Day
He was still having problems getting the lovely princess out of his mind as four royal household guards followed him, the young messenger, and the two decurions he’d dragged out of the stands to accompany him through the streets of Lutèce towards the palace that had replaced the Citadelle des Enfants as the royal residence. He’d left Vitalis and the other knight to rescue Trebonius from the prince’s courtiers, if need be, but mostly because he didn’t think two more men would make much difference if he was walking into a trap.
La Citadelle, as the name suggested, had once protected all the children of Lutèce from the largest Dalarn raid recorded by the royal chroniclers, although now its massive walls enclosed the royal library as well as the city arsenal. Its two towers were just visible over the trees and building tops to the west, but then his escorts turned right onto what they informed him was la Rue du Divin, so called for the three famous churches, each larger and more ornately decorated than its predecessor, culminating in the cathedral of Notre Dame des Eaux, which his scholarly instincts suggested to him had probably once been a pagan shrine to a long-forgotten Savondese river goddess. But the citadel’s defenses had not been required for many years, as the open courtyards, visible behind gates that were, more often than not, also left open, were ample testimony to the safety and security the people of Savondir’s capital city had known for generations.
How much longer would that last now that there were two foreign armies established inside the realm, a rebellion brewing in the south, and a massive orc-and-goblin army on the march to the east? He shrugged. The king could simply return to La Citadelle if need be. It was a formidable fortification, and one that would provide a challenge even to his own architecti, although he had no doubt they could take it if need be.
The messenger’s steps slowed and finally came to a halt as they approached the marble-covered building. The dark grey structure lacked the something of the grandeur, as well as the size, of the great cathedrals in Amorr, but it nevertheless captured something of the glory of the triumphant God who had conquered both the waters and the dark spirits that once ruled over them. He could see there was a statue at the top of the steps, and when he shot an inquiring glance at the messenger, the man indicated that Marcus should precede him. The seven men followed him up the wide, granite staircase, and he noticed, as he walked up the steps, that the stone was lightened and worn away in the middle from many previous footsteps over many years.
Upon reaching the top, he peered at the statue that was set inside a fountain. It was a statue of a woman, and although he assumed she was nominally supposed to be the Holy Mother, her stone robes were rather too water-logged and clinging to hide her curves, which might have done credit to a camp whore. Most of the symbols were conventional enough, but there were a few he did not recognize, and several that he guessed had nothing to do with the Church proper.
“Why the waters?” he asked the messenger.
“Mon Seigneur?”
“The Lady of the Waters,” he said, indicating the statue of the woman, who looked as if she had water pouring out of both her sleeves; presumably there were some sort of pipes cunningly concealed in the stone. “Why is she of particular significance to Lutèce?”
The man looked uneasy. “I don’t know much about such things, Seigneur Valerie. Perhaps you could ask one of the priests?”
Marcus nodded. The maréchal was nowhere to be seen; presumably he was inside. He signaled the equestrians to stay where they were and mounted the three broad steps in front of the huge double doors alone; the wooden doors, too, were carved with animals and people, and symbols of dubious theological antecedence. They were well-oiled, and made virtually no noise when he entered.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, as there were only four windows on each side of the sanctuary, and all eight were made of a heavy stained glass that obscured more light than they let in. There were no pews or benches. The sanctuary was merely a large open space with an altar on a platform at the far end and four wooden confessionals on the right side near the front of the sanctuary. Stairs on all four corners led to a wooden balcony that ringed the huge room on three sides, constructed in a manner that did not obscure the brightly colored paintings that decorated the ceiling with parables, scenes of Scriptural accounts, and other religious iconography. Most of it was more or less recognizable to him, but it was all painted in a style that was somewhat alien to his eye.
The confessionals were screened more heavily than was the Amorran manner, heavily enough that it was impossible to see if there was anyone in them or not. And yet, the sight of the familiar structures was enough to inspire him with a wave of homesickness combined with guilt and remorse; it was as if the consciousness of his many sins, too many them unconfessed and unforgiven, suddenly landed upon his shoulders with a palpable sensation of weight.
He heard footsteps behind him and recognized one of the members of the royal Haut Conseil. But it was not the conseiller he had expected to see, the man he had been told would be meeting him. Instead of the white-mustached Maréchal de Savonne, it was the smooth-faced Chancelier, François du Moulin, who was emerging from the shadows at the other end of the sanctuary.
“Should you wish to avail yourself of the confessional, General Valerius, I understand Father Alain makes himself available to all who seek absolution here from the ninth bell until the twelfth.”
Marcus smiled faintly at the older man. “I fear I have much to do and little time to do it, Monseigneur Chancelier. My sins will have to keep for the present. Do you think to add to your own?”
“My own?” Du Moulin affected to look surprised.
“You lured me here under false pretenses. But if you think to kill me as a threat to the throne, I assure you, you will be making a dreadful mistake.”
“I am unarmed, General. You have the advantage of me. And I doubt that sword is your only weapon.”
Marcus smiled, unamused. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Chancelier. I would be astonished if there were less than two crossbows aimed at me right now. And I should not be surprised if there were not one or more swordsmen in the confessionals there as well.”
He undid the buckle of his belt, and held up the well-worn leather, with his scabbarded sword hanging from it. “I would not shed blood on holy ground, monseigneur. Not even yours.” He dropped the belt, and the sword, to the marble floor.
Du Moulin laughed. But it was a genuine laugh of good humor, not a superior one. “Three crossbows, but only one swordsman. He’s very good, you see. Warin, you may come out now, if you please!”
The door of the third confessional opened and a slim man of modest stature came out, looking rather sheepish. He looked more nondescript than dangerous, and the sword he was wearing looked slender and toy-like, but Marcus had learned better than to judge a man by his appearance. The most dangerous swordsman in the legion was a balding veteran of fifteen years’ service, who gave up more than a hands’ worth of reach to Marcus, but was an absolute demon with a blade.
Warin ducked his head twice, first to du Moulin, then to Marcus. “Will that be all, monseigneur?”
The chancelier looked at Marcus. “That remains to be seen. I expect so. You may wait outside.”
The assassin bowed again, then walked past du Moulin and into an annex on the other side of the sanctuary, where he disappeared from view. The chancelier watched him go, then turned back to Marcus and spread his hands apologetically.
“Did you find the combats much to your liking?”
“As it happened, I found them rather artificial and of limited utility in war. Though admittedly more civil than our own games.”
Du Moulin smiled, although no hint of amusement touched his eyes. “The king was most impressed with the ease with which you defeated the orcs. Am I correct in understanding you lost less than twenty men?”
Marcus ignored the question. “I am pleased to have been of service to His Majesty. Now tell me, Monseigneur Chancelier, w
hy you have arranged to bring me here under false pretenses?”
“This world is corrupt, besmirched, and fallen, my son. A man of responsibility often discovers that there is no right choice before him, and that he must choose between two evils. This does not mean he does not sin when he chooses the lesser, it means that the evil is not in him, rather, it is in the world around him.”
“You must to take that up with God, monseigneur, not with me. You have lied to me, set assassins to lie in wait for me, and now think to lecture me on philosophy. And of those three offenses, it is the third I find the most grievous, and to which I take the most exception. If you would speak with me, speak plain!”
“Ah, so the priest and philosophe is now the plain-speaking soldier? Very well, I will speak plain. I do what I must, General, in the interest of crown and throne, and I do so without apology. My intent was not to deceive you, but rather, the eyes that have been upon you since you came to this city in the company of the heir to the throne, while in possession of the largest army in the land. I do not fear you, my sole concern is with those who seek to turn you, and your army, against king, crown, and throne. They are silent now. They hide behind the king’s shield while the danger from without threatens the whole realm. But once the danger is gone, they will emerge, as they always do, whispering their promises, and offering their enticements.”
“And you wished to warn me of this?” Marcus snorted. “Chancelier, I fear I have considerably more pressing concerns on my mind. It is my dearest wish that I should survive to be troubled by such dangers!”
“I do not seek to warn you. Rather, I seek to understand if you will prove amenable when they come calling.”
“I have heard of your rebels. In the southwest, yes? The Grand Duchy? They have nothing to offer me.”
“No? They cannot bring back your father, they cannot restore the peace of your empire, but they can offer you an army. And they will! Hundreds of horse and mounted men-at-arms, all armed in the knightly style. The right to make legionaries of the serfs belonging to other lords, if only you will help them conquer their lands. Can you truly say that there would be no appeal for a general in such things? Especially should he be in desperate need of additional troops as he prepares to take his depleted legion home, to where his nemesis lies waiting?”
Marcus blinked. He had not considered any such thing, indeed, he had not thought much beyond the battle that was soon to come. “No, I cannot,” he admitted slowly. “Are you making a preemptive offer?”
“Of course not. It would be irresponsible, and false, and anyone but a complete innocent would see right through it. General.”
Marcus instinctively bristled at the insult implicit in du Moulin’s words, but he controlled his temper. The Savonder was right. He would not have seen past the bait; he was, in Savondese terms, an innocent when it came to their alien politics.
“You have an evil mind, Chancelier.”
“Is evil born in the hearts of men, or are its seeds planted there by the prince of this world?”
“Both, of course.” Marcus snorted. “I presume you don’t actually wish to bandy theology with me, Chancelier, although I am certainly capable of accommodating you if you wish.”
“It would be a pleasure, General, had we only the time. Believe it or not, I was once like you. I, too, was intended for the Church. I, too, might well have taken vows. Beware, my son, even the most sacred duty can prove corrupting over time. The more wholly you devote yourself to your duty, the more it will corrupt you.”
“You serve a man. I serve Amorr itself!”
“Come now! Are you so poor a philosophe that you have failed to discover that the crown is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestral House, and more to be regarded in the eyes of God as well as men of understanding?”
Marcus discovered, to his dismay, that he was beginning to like the man. But that instinctive liking was tempered by the knowledge that it was du Moulin’s intention for him to feel that way.
“I am duly warned, Chancelier. You may set your mind at ease. As I told you at Sainte Jorac, I will serve His Royal Majesty so long as Legio XVII is welcome in His Royal Majesty’s realm. House Valerius is loyal to its friends and does not truck with whisperers.”
“I am pleased to hear it. And, of course, if they do come whispering in your ears, I should be most glad if you would let me know.”
“Said the man who whispers in the king’s ear.” The chancelier only chuckled.
“Mon cher General, I could hardly meet you in the open, nor could we speak frankly in front of an audience. I assure you, the maréchal was entirely willing to play the stalking horse and the young man who brought you here is indeed in his service.”
“Then why the assassins?” Marcus did not mean to betray his outrage, but he could not help himself, the words came out rather more heated than he intended.
“You are young. I did arrange for you to be deceived. And you Amorrans are rather famously violent. You cannot blame me for taking precautions.”
Marcus nodded. It was sensible enough. He certainly didn’t have any trouble imagining Magnus, or even Falconius Buteo, taking murderous exception to a similar deception. A thought struck him.
“What about Theuderic, the mage. Is he one of yours?”
“Theuderic? Ah, yes, the kingsmage, who is also the Comte de Thôneaux. No, he is one of D’Arseille’s men, my colleague on the Haut Conseil, the Grandmagicien of l’Académie.”
“And the liaison, de Forbonnais?”
Du Moulin nodded complacently. “Yes, of course, as you must have expected.”
Good, Marcus thought with satisfaction. At least he had spotted the chancelier’s spy. It seemed he was not quite as innocent as the Savonder imagined.
“As long as I am here, I have some questions for you. Can you tell me anything about Amorr? Has the Senate purged House Valerius over Magnus’s treachery?”
“My sources have suffered in the wake of the expulsions last winter, as you can imagine, but I am given to understand that while there is an amount of suspicion concerning your cousins, your mother and your siblings remain untainted. It is generally believed that your uncle intends to make himself king of Vallyria and as many allied cities as he can win over. It is said that he has eight legions sworn to him, but that number strikes me as an exaggeration.”
Marcus nodded. Eight was impossible, especially since he was in possession of one of the three House legions. Four was the most he could imagine. “Does the Senate know the legion is here?”
“They must by now. Before that, the general belief was that you’d surrendered it to your uncle after being defeated.” The chancelier chuckled at the expression on Marcus’s face. “It rankles, does it?”
“More than you can know.”
“I imply no criticism, General. Considering what you have accomplished in the King’s name since your arrival, I shudder to imagine the general who defeated you. I imagine he must give the Senate many a sleepless night.”
Marcus grinned despite himself. “I have no doubt of that. Have they found my father’s killer?”
“No. Nor that of the Sanctified Father.”
Marcus nodded. He wondered if he would ever know the truth of Corvus’s death. “That is all I need to know. And before I go, Chancelier, will you not tell me the real reason you arranged for us to meet this way? A man of your subtlety is seldom given to confessing the truth on the first question.”
Now it was the chancelier who smiled. “You flatter me, Marcus Valerius. Very well. In truth, I wish to know your opinion of Étienne-Henri.”
Marcus’s first instinct was to dissemble, but after quickly rethinking the wisdom of attempting to deceive a man who lied as readily as he breathed, he decided that if he was going to set himself at odds with du Moulin, it would have to be over something more significant than his opinion of a man to whom he owed nothing.
“He is clever. Those who are inclined to underestim
ate him are likely to be surprised, I think. He is ambitious, he is anxious for glory, but he is not eager for the throne. From what I have seen, he respects his father, he both loves and envies his late brother, and if I am not mistaken, he seems to fear one of his younger brothers. He is not a trusting man, though he does seem to keep his own word when it suits him.”
“I noticed you hesitated to answer…” The chancelier’s voice trailed off suggestively, but Marcus declined to take the bait. The older man smiled a little, and continued. “I understand it is not uncommon for men who have fought together to become close.”
“We did not fight together,” Marcus corrected him. “Nor have we become close. We traveled here together, that is all. The Crown Prince is not a soldier. Nor, in my estimation, is he a leader of men. But I do not think you need question his loyalties.”
Du Moulin nodded, as if in agreement. “Charles-Phillippe would have been a great king, but I sometimes wonder if Étienne-Henri would have proven restive under his rule. Under his father, no, he will wait his turn. Which brother does he fear?”
“The one closest to him in age. He never mentioned his name, and there was something in the way that he avoided even speaking it that caused me to notice. He has considerably more fondness for the youngest.”
“That makes sense. The Comte d’Ainme was closer to Charles-Phillippe than to him, and some have even said that the comte shows considerable promise as a general.”
“I could not say.”
“No, of course not. Just one more question, General, and then I will take my leave. The orcs. Can you win?”
“I will certainly do my utmost.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it is not.” Marcus paused, and looked up at one of the stained glass windows. “In my considered and educated opinion, I do not see how we can, monseigneur. We will buy you time, and reduce their numbers. But do not rely upon us to turn them back.”
Du Moulin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, Marcus saw, for the first time, the merest flicker of genuine emotion flash across the chancelier’s face. Was it fear? Was it doubt? Was it resignation? Whatever it was, it vanished in an instant as the older man mastered himself. He smiled tightly, and gave Marcus a formal little bow.
