Mixer gave a bark, in agreement or hunger, I wasn’t sure which.
*
I don’t know what exactly I was expecting of Cairn’s New Greatcoats, but it wasn’t what I saw at the stronghold on the far side of Old Town. Inside the wide two-storey stone building, small rooms surrounded a single large space in the centre. Outside, it was still pitch-black; inside, hundreds of candles and a blazing fire in the large central fireplace combined to illuminate the room. A group of musicians were playing reels I’d never heard before, and Cairn’s Greatcoats were dancing, their bodies casting undulating shadows against the walls. The result was a primal, almost sexual atmosphere.
‘Had you heard anything about this?’ I asked Aline. She lived in Rijou, after all.
But she shook her head vigorously. ‘I remember Mother telling me that the Duke was always sending his men out to find rebel Greatcoats, but I guess I always assumed he meant your people.’
I wondered at that. The Covenant specifically forbade any retribution against the Greatcoats. But then again, the Dukes only occasionally played fair, and without exception they played to win.
‘Lorenzo!’ Cairn shouted excitedly.
The man who turned in response looked like a Saint from an old romance. He was tall, standing at least six and a half feet. His long, golden hair framed a tanned face that would make Brasti look like a decayed crone, and his body made Kest look like an ill-fed orphan. He wore blackened leather trousers and a supple mail shirt that I recognised with envy as Ilthen Steel-Ring: hard to make and very, very expensive. The rings blocked both sword and knife, but were light as winter wool. It clung lovingly to his form, showing off his physique to great effect. It was hard not to suspect that might have been intentional. His coat, though … His coat was a greatcoat, to be sure; it was certainly well made, and it looked serviceable enough in a fight. But it was not a Greatcoat. It wasn’t of the Tailor’s making. I’d seen every coat she’d ever made, and hers was a cut that couldn’t be duplicated by anyone I’d ever encountered. I’d often wondered if the King could have even started the Greatcoats without her.
‘Cairn? What in hells are you doing bringing someone here?’ Lorenzo said. There was a casual smile on his face but I could hear irritation underneath – irritation, and something more: a sort of mild disdain mixed with tolerance.
‘He’s one of us, Lorenzo,’ Cairn said, no longer able to contain his excitement. ‘He’s one of the originals! It’s Falcio, the First Cantor!’
Lorenzo eyed me for a moment, clearly unimpressed with what he saw. I had to forgive him that. I was exhausted, road- and battle-weary, my clothes were shabby and even my greatcoat was torn and patched. He left off his inspection of me for a moment and asked carefully, ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘Aline, daughter of Lord Tiarren,’ I said.
‘Saints,’ Lorenzo said quietly. ‘I heard what happened.’ He knelt down, his face now level with hers. ‘You’re safe here now, my Lady. To the hells with Ganath Kalila; the Blood Week won’t reach you inside these walls.’
Aline gave a proper curtsy and extended her hand. ‘I am grateful, sir. We are pursued by the Duke’s men. If not for this man, I would have died half a dozen times already.’
Lorenzo looked up at me. ‘So it’s true then? You really are one of the King’s Magisters?’
I nodded.
‘The First Cantor?’
I nodded again.
Lorenzo rose to his full height. ‘Saints,’ he said, ‘this is incredible.’
He gripped me in a hug and said something which I presumed was ‘brother’ in my ear. For some reason I found the gesture too familiar.
‘Brothers! Sisters!’ Lorenzo called, his voice carrying above the music, and the musicians stopped almost immediately. Clearly Lorenzo was the man in charge here. All eyes turned to me and I looked around. I guessed there were some forty men and women staring at us, all young, strong and attractive. I added rich to that list, since the fourth usually accompanies the first three.
‘Brothers and sisters, a sign has come to us: a sign from Gods and Saints alike,’ Lorenzo proclaimed. ‘This man – this man is Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the King’s Magisters: the man who helped start the Greatcoats has come to us to join our great undertaking!’
At first the cheering was a bit on the unenthusiastic side, as if his audience wasn’t quite sure what any of that meant, but it grew steadily until it was a roar in my ear. I felt Aline move closer to me.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ I said quietly to Cairn.
Lorenzo heard me. ‘It’s about you coming here, against all the odds in the world. It’s a sign, First Cantor, can’t you see? It’s the sign we’ve been waiting for. This is the day we begin the revolution, the day we start the fight for the freedom of our city and our country!’
There was more cheering, and I found myself at a loss. Were these people really planning on bringing the Greatcoats back into the world? How had this started? Was this part of the King’s plan? Thoughts swirled around my head, but no conclusion was forthcoming, and all I was left with was an unsettling sense that something wasn’t quite right.
‘Say something!’ someone shouted. A few people laughed, but then others joined in the call until almost everyone was shouting, ‘Speak! Speak!’
Lorenzo pushed me forward.
Reluctantly, I opened my mouth and started, ‘I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you, who you are or what you’re about. I’m not here to start some revolution, I’m not here to be a sign, and Saints know I’m not here to lead more good men and women to their deaths.’
I paused for a moment, curious about how they would react, but they didn’t, so I continued, ‘The law has been broken – the King’s Law. This girl’s family has been murdered, and she herself is the target of assassins. Lorenzo spoke true when he told you who I was: my name is Falcio val Mond, and I was First Cantor of the Greatcoats. I’ve judged in this girl’s favour, so it’s my job to keep her alive until the end of the Blood Week. That’s why I’m here. That’s all.’
If Lorenzo was disappointed in my speech he didn’t show it. He smiled broadly, as if I’d just summoned the ancestors of all good men to battle.
‘Did you hear that?’ he called out. ‘The law’s been broken, a girl’s life hangs in the balance and a Greatcoat fights to save her. Falcio val Mond’s going to save her.’
He turned to me and knelt down on one knee. ‘My Lord Cantor, my name is Lorenzo; my sword is yours; my strength is yours. My life is yours.’
Without waiting for a response he rose and turned to the crowd. ‘Who else stands with Falcio?’ he asked.
A deafening roar rose up, my name, shouted over and over. The hells with the amulets; I imagined Shiballe could hear us from the palace.
‘I’m grateful,’ I said quietly to Lorenzo, ‘but right now we just need—’
He either couldn’t hear me through the din or he was ignoring me. ‘We have begun a great undertaking, my brothers, my sisters – so let’s celebrate! Someone get some damned food and drink out here!’
Another roar from the crowd.
Saint Laina-who-whores-for-Gods, I thought, who are these people?
*
I moved through the next few hours as if through a dream – someone else’s dream. The hard candy was wearing off and Aline was hungry and weary, so I decided it was better to give her a chance to rest and eat, rather than rely on a mix of herbs and esoteric sugars that would demand payback later on.
‘What do you think?’ Lorenzo asked me and gestured to his New Greatcoats. The music and dancing had resumed with fervour, and some of the crowd were paired off further down the great hall practising swordwork.
‘They seem very excited,’ I said, not sure what else to add. They looked to be fair hands with a blade, trained most likely by local fencing masters, as the rich often were. I couldn’t fault them for that, and they were certainly eager enough. But something still didn’t make sense
to me.
‘How did all this start?’ I asked.
Lorenzo looked at me and smiled, his eyebrow raised. ‘Ah, now there’s a story – but a story for later on. It’s time for duels!’
‘Duels?’
He rose from his chair and motioned for the musicians to stop. ‘Brothers, sisters, let’s show our Cantor what we can do!’
There were more cheers, and several men and women advanced, pulling swords from their sheaths, waiting for the word from Lorenzo. He pointed to a pair nearby. The woman was strikingly attractive, dark hair framing a sharp but beautiful face, and the look she gave Lorenzo told me they were a couple. The man next to her was close to her height and wiry, and elegant in a dark green shirt beneath his black greatcoat.
‘I think Etricia and Mott first, then Sulless and Cole.’
There were a few disappointed looks from the others, but everyone parted to make room for the combatants.
‘They’re fighting with sharps?’ I asked. We Greatcoats practised with blades instead of wooden swords, but we’d had a lot more training than these people had.
‘Watch,’ said Lorenzo.
The man, Mott, launched himself at Etricia, who dodged neatly out of the way and brought the point of her blade in line with Mott’s chest. She delivered a thrust I thought for sure would skewer him, but he deflected it with the back of his gloved hand with the sort of calm and precision I normally see from Kest. Then he flipped his hand over and struck back towards her face, far too quickly for her to evade – and yet, she did. It was stunning to watch, almost as if they could read each other’s minds and knew each move ahead of time. Then it hit me: they did know each other’s moves ahead of time.
I leaned into Lorenzo and said, ‘They’re not duelling, they’re performing. This is all choreographed.’
Lorenzo gave me a smile. ‘Well, yes. We can’t really have our Greatcoats injuring each other, can we?’
I was shocked. This was the worst possible way to train fighters: having them work out the choreography together and then performing it. It was as if they thought the speed and sharpened blades somehow made it more real than true fighting with wooden blunts. What were these people thinking?
The fight came to a finish with a delightful flourish of bladework that ended with Etricia standing over Mott in a preposterous pose with the tip of her sword an inch from his eye. The applause was thunderous.
‘This is madness,’ I said to Cairn. ‘Why don’t you train properly?’
‘I think it’s a bit rude, don’t you, to come into our home and criticise our training systems?’ Lorenzo said.
‘I have suggested—’ Cairn began.
‘No one asked you to speak, Cairn,’ Lorenzo said, the warning clear in his voice. Though perhaps not clear enough for Cairn.
‘Everyone has a say at a Greatcoats meeting,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Why not train the way Falcio suggests? Wooden swords, but real fights, real training.’
Lorenzo sighed and rose from his chair. ‘All right then,’ he said, pulling a wickedly long rapier from its sheath. ‘Let’s train, Cairn: straight ahead combat, you and me.’
The crowd moved aside for him and Cairn looked around nervously. If he was hoping someone would object, he was out of luck.
‘But I’m not ready … I’m—’
‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I—’
‘Come, come, Cairn,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes locked on his opponent. ‘A Greatcoat needs to be ready at any time, doesn’t he?’
Cairn reluctantly walked towards the centre and drew his own sword, a short and obviously cheap weapon. I had the impression that Cairn was not quite so well off as the rest of the people here, and not all that well respected.
‘At least use wooden swords,’ I said. ‘You’re going to bloody kill yourselves like this.’
Lorenzo ignored me. He continued to smile as he kept his gaze fixed on Cairn. ‘You’re not afraid, are you, Cairn? Reassure our guest that your honour matters a lot more to you than a scrape here or there.’
‘Fuck your honour,’ I said. ‘Honour’s for Knights. Use some sense, boy.’
The crowd arrayed themselves in a circle, penning the two men inside.
Cairn looked at me like an animal who has just realised that the door to his cage has been closed behind him. ‘No, no, he’s right. I want to be a Greatcoat. I have to be able to fight.’ He put himself into a rough approximation of a guard position and waited.
Lorenzo signalled to his woman, Etricia, who came over and gave him a wanton kiss on the mouth before smiling wickedly at me. I realised then that this had been a trap, of sorts: Cairn wasn’t well-respected; he wasn’t well-liked, and he had embarrassed Lorenzo by bringing me here. They’d all been safe and sound in their make-believe world of Greatcoats and honour and swordplay, but here I was, the ugly truth of the matter. Cairn probably had a lot more idea about what we Greatcoats were really about than the others, and he probably complained a lot more. Now he was going to get a beating.
‘Will our guest call the start of the bout?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘Fine,’ I said, an idea coming to mind. ‘When I call the start of the match, you may begin, and you will fight until first blood. Any man goes past first blood shows himself unable to control his blade and forfeits the match.’ There: see what you can do with that, you pompous cornstalk.
‘As you say,’ Lorenzo said, bowing towards me.
Cairn nodded.
‘Fine. Begin,’ I said.
Lorenzo’s blade whipped out and I thought it might be over before it began, but he held the blow before it could connect. A feint, and well executed, for certain – and convincing enough that Cairn had flinched and put his arms up in front of his face, looking to all the world like a child trying to avoid a slap.
The crowd laughed.
‘Are you all right?’ Lorenzo enquired solicitously, pulling his blade back and leaning forward with an expression of utter concern.
More laughter.
Cairn came back into guard. Lorenzo attacked again, using almost the exact same move. It’s not an uncommon trick to make it appear as if you’re going to repeat a feint, but this time to follow through with the blow. But in this case, with embarrassment as his aim, Lorenzo simply feinted exactly the same way, and produced exactly the same result. Poor Cairn was humiliated and left off-balance.
The audience was stingingly unsympathetic.
At first I was relieved: this would just be a way for Lorenzo to embarrass Cairn and reassert his dominance of the group. But I was mistaken. Lorenzo was an excellent swordsman, and he had all the control he needed to dominate the fight and not draw blood. But as the fight went on, he used that control not to scare Cairn, but to beat him mercilessly with the flat of his blade. No blood was drawn, but Cairn was being badly struck, over and over. When he tried to fight defensively, Lorenzo would sneak past his guard and hit him with the flat. When he tried scoring a touch, Lorenzo punished him with much harder strikes.
To his credit, Cairn kept getting up, taking his punishment – then Lorenzo knocked the tip of Cairn’s blade down towards the ground and delivered a vicious strike against his wrist with the flat of his blade. I heard a crack.
‘Enough!’ I said. ‘Fighters separate.’
Lorenzo stood back for a moment. ‘First Cantor? I don’t understand – I thought you said we fought to first blood?’
I looked out into the crowd. A few looked horrified at what was happening but more, many, many more, looked gleeful at the show they were getting.
‘The boy’s had enough,’ I said.
‘I—’ Cairn began.
‘He can withdraw if he wishes,’ Lorenzo said soothingly, ‘but any man or woman who runs from a fight is no Greatcoat and has no business here with us.’
I laughed. ‘“Runs from a fight?” You child. We run from fights all the time – we run from any fight we can get away from. “Judge Fair, Ride Fast, Fight Hard” – fighting is always our l
ast resort.’
It was Lorenzo’s turn to sneer. ‘Well, perhaps that explains why you ran so quickly the last time there was a fight worth winning! Perhaps that’s why there’s no King and no Greatcoats any more. Perhaps we –’ and here he turned and swept his arms out wide – ‘perhaps we plan on fighting, not running!’
Aline put a hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go, Falcio. I think we should go now.’
I shrugged her arm off.
‘You’re a fool, Lorenzo, and so is anyone here who listens to this tripe. You think you’re going to take forty men and women and fight an armoured division of Knights? In plate-mail? The army that came for the King had a thousand men on horseback. You think you can fight your way out of that?’ I felt the sting of irony myself, since I had tried very hard to convince the King to let me do that very thing.
‘You know, First Cantor, you look tired. Perhaps you need to rest, and dream sweet dreams of the past, while younger and better men do the fighting for you. Or perhaps –’ he turned and smiled wolfishly – ‘perhaps you’d like to show us all a thing or two about how you used to do it in the old days?’
‘Come on, Falcio,’ Aline said. ‘This isn’t your fight.’
But she was wrong: these people were calling themselves Greatcoats. I had devoted my life to this cause, and a hundred and forty-three others had done the same. We had fought and bled and died for this cause. My King had lost his head for this cause.
Lorenzo was right about one thing, though, I was tired. I was tired of Dukes and Knights, and even the common folk calling us ‘Trattari’ and ‘tatter-cloaks’ and worse. I was tired of the memory of what we had tried to do for the world being sullied. More than anything, I was tired of running and hiding. I knew I should just leave with Aline, try and find somewhere else to hide. I could practically hear Brasti shouting in my ear, telling me not to put my anger in front of my reason again. He was right.
But I’d be thrice-damned before I let these fools, these arrogant sons-of-bitches, put the final death to the memory of the Greatcoats.
I walked towards the centre of the hall, checking the crowd. Sometimes these things can turn against you quickly if you misread the situation. You might think you’re walking into a duel, but if fifteen men decide they want to join in, you can’t just shout ‘that’s not fair’ at them and hope they’ll back off. But these people didn’t care about anything but a good show. They thought Lorenzo was unbeatable, Saint Caveil himself come to teach them the sword. Well, fine. Kest always says that Saints are just little Gods and are probably due for a beating anyway.
Traitor's Blade (The Greatcoats) Page 18
