All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3)

by Adam Dreece

  Nikolas absorbed the story and stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. “Your father and grandfather suffered similar fates, then?” he said, trying to remember the details.

  Marcus tapped the window absentmindedly. “I think of it almost like history was re-staging a moment, and each time the actor had their chance. My grandfather died as a King’s-Men because he missed the signs that things were changing. My father was a better King’s-Men, aware of the changes needed, but he was horrible at politics and seizing the opportunities before him.”

  “But you—you didn’t die a King’s-Men,” said Nikolas.

  “No, no, I didn’t,” said Marcus, turning to his old friend. “I’m changing history entirely.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Making Cracks

  Five hooded figures quickly entered a small, octagonal room below the grand theater of the capital city of Relna. Each one identified the symbol on the edge of the round table that told them where to stand.

  Taking their places, they put their lanterns on the table and pulled down their beige hoods. Once they were all ready, a red-hooded figure entered and stood opposite the door.

  “Do you all understand what is expected of you?” asked the Red Hood. He turned to the man immediately to his left, and looked from man to man as they each nodded.

  The Red Hood waited until music from upstairs could be heard. He knocked on the table, and the thick, wooden door was sealed from the outside. He pulled out a pocket watch and notebook, and marked down the time. “We have ten minutes. Report on the proxy war,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  The old man to his left glanced about nervously. Unbeknownst to him, none of the others had been to any such meetings before either. Like him, they’d only been recruited several weeks ago to serve as cryptic messengers.

  He scratched his very short, blond-gray hair and straightened up. His voice had a deep rural Frelish accent. “I was told to say: the armies are marching on Palais in six days. They have left ruin in every city so far, and have been sending as many citizens as they can to the Kaban coast for the slave trade.” He glanced around. “Does this have anything to do with—” The man stopped as he noted the panicked expression spreading among the others, and then he remembered the rules. To get paid the handsome sum they’d been promised, they were all to report and ask no questions. Asking a single question could forfeit their reward.

  “Next,” said the Red Hood. “Are we certain they will be defeated by our new forces before they march on Palais?”

  “Yes,” replied the next man over. He was young and short, with long, shaggy hair. “I’m told the royal family and the King’s-Men will seize power back from the parliament once attacked, and then our forces will arrive from the northern coast to provide them assistance. We have the numbers and the equipment needed.”

  “Excellent.” The Red Hood thought for a moment. “What of the south?”

  The third man, sounding much like a professor, continued the report. “The southern kingdoms are squabbling as expected, and allowed us to make deeper inroads thanks to their insecurity. We’ve solidified our hold in almost all of them.”

  “Almost?” said the Red Hood, tensing.

  The professor swallowed hard, glancing at his unnamed colleagues. “There are some issues in Karupto. We are addressing them. There are two King’s-Men who protect Queen Sarah from our influence.”

  “So kill them,” quipped the Red Hood. “I mean, I do not see the problem.” He rolled his eyes, realizing there was no point in giving such an order to the messenger, as his role was to communicate one way.

  “I’m told we’ve tried. These two were apparently part of something called the Pieman’s Trust.” Despite his years of experience working for other nefarious people, his hands shook as he stood, waiting for the Red Hood’s reaction.

  “I’ll need to report this,” the Red Hood said ominously. He jotted down a couple of encrypted words in his well-worn notebook.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “We’re almost out of time,” he said, confirming with his pocket watch. “Where are we with the Skyfallers?”

  “Why don’t you take your hood off?” asked the man due to report. He was a thuggish, bald man with several small scars on his face and hands. “And why are we all new? I can see it in all of them. What’s going on?”

  All of the others dropped their gazes, trying to hide from the Red Hood’s attention.

  The sinister expression that spread across the Red Hood’s face immediately chilled the room. “What is your name?”

  The thug glanced at the others. “Randy.”

  “I’ll answer your questions in a moment, but first I ask that we close out this last piece of business. We must strictly adhere to process at meetings like this.”

  Randy quickly moved his gaze to everyone and then back to the host. No one else was willing to say a thing. Straightening up, he nodded in acceptance. “They’re preparing a demonstration for the stubborn royals of Myke and some place called Bodear. I was told that the Pieman has a secret thing in Bodear.”

  “My mistress will be pleased to hear that.”

  The door opened and a man stared squarely at the Red Hood. He wore a red jacket with two black leather straps crisscrossing over it, and two pistols attached to it on the front and on the back. He had a long moustache and shoulder-length, dark hair that gave him a dashing, enforcer look. “Are we done? The music will end in two minutes,” he said insistently.

  “Yes, Mister Jenny,” said the hooded figure, putting his notebook away under his cloak, “we have concluded.”

  Randy was annoyed. “I thought you said—”

  In a blinding flash, the enforcer gunned down all the men except the Red Hood. He made sure that each of the messengers were no longer among the living before putting his pistols away and asking, “Lord Silskin?”

  “I’m fine, as always, Mister Jenny,” said the old man as he took off his blood-splattered hood and cloak, and dropped it on the floor. “No matter how many times we do this, my nerves always get rattled by the noise.”

  As Mister Jenny’s men entered the room to start cleaning up, one handed him a neatly folded red-hooded cloak with gold embroidery on it. Then Mister Jenny, with head bowed, presented it to Silskin.

  “Thank you,” Silskin said, putting it on. “That feels better. I hate those common things, but there’s no point in ruining the real thing.”

  “So what now?” asked Mister Jenny, concerned that he might be about to face the fate he’d dished out.

  Lord Silskin smiled and put a hand on Mister Jenny’s shoulder. “This meeting was the last one of its kind, and you need not worry. Your assistance has been instrumental in the past few years, helping the Fare move in the Pieman’s shadow while we’ve started to strike at him. Now, that phase will conclude and the aftermath will come. We’ll need to root out pockets of resistance, the remnants of the Pieman’s forces, and whatever factions of the Tub dare to raise a hand to us. You will be key then, Mister Jenny, once again. You can trust the Fare. We know who our enemies are.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Great Fall

  The frigid night air roused Abeland with a coughing fit. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his manacled, dirty hands. He tried to get comfortable. His thoughts drifted to how different things had been a year and a half ago.

  On the walk up to the towering gates of the Great Palace of Karupto, Abeland took his time, enjoying the wildflower-covered rolling hills. He always made a point of trying to find some element of nature to clear his mind and settle his soul before taking on a regime.

  As the gates opened, revealing soldiers lining both sides of the street, he accepted that it was time to get down to business. The soldiers formed a corridor all the way to the throne room, where Abeland and his party would be officially received.

  Abeland studied the body language of the mix of soldiers as he walked past them. It was clear they’d been told to take the slightest ex
cuse as a sign of hostility and attack. Several times, he stopped and observed the crowd peeking out from behind the soldiers. The soldiers in his line of sight would start getting anxious, and each time, just before things boiled over, Abeland moved his gaze and started walking again. At no point did he or his entourage seem to be the least bit concerned.

  He’d had similar treatment recently in the neighboring kingdoms of Genouia, Perguntia, and Beleza. His arrival had become almost mythical, like a great demon descending upon a regime and asking a hefty ransom or else the land would face its own apocalypse.

  The glowing ring of Abeland’s monocle was usually the first sign of things to come. He’d often stand outside a city’s gates in the wee hours of the morning and activate his monocle’s glow. He’d stand there for hours, allowing for rumors and panic to spread throughout the capital city, as he waited for them to finally open the gates and allow him entrance.

  He was flanked by five members of his personal guard, the Order of the Pieman’s Trust. They were well-trained, ruthless, and permanently at the ready. Each was armed with an array of weapons, from firearms to blades.

  When Abeland and his entourage stepped into the castle, the soldiers had weapons drawn. “That’s more like it,” he said, bringing about some snickers from his men. “I thought they just had fake ones like in… where was it that most of their soldiers had fake weapons?”

  “Beleza,” replied Francisco. “That’s the one on the coast, west of Roja, right?”

  Abeland smiled and nodded. “Odd little place,” he mused, bringing about chuckles from the two that had been there with him.

  Without another remark, they continued until they were in the heart of the extravagant throne room.

  Two towering statues of the King were central to the room, his large stone palms holding up the high ceiling. Flags decorated the walls, with the official colors of blue and gold on plaques representing each of Karupto’s five regions.

  The corridor of soldiers came to an end on a red carpet, with two soldiers blocking the path with crossed pikes. The King sat on an enormous throne with a court of twenty people surrounding him. They were on a black marble platform two steps up, a few yards behind the pike-wielding soldiers.

  King Hamed had a thin, old face and greedy eyes. His robes were bright blue and gold. His bald head caught some shine from the morning light that poured in from the windows extending three stories up the sides of the throne room.

  Abeland quickly noted that there was no queen present. He couldn’t remember if she had died or been banished, as the kings of Karupto were famous for disposing of their wives quickly after they bore children.

  He smiled at the court like a fox greeting the chickens. “Good morning, everyone,” he said, passing a quick gaze up to see a dozen crossbowmen and riflemen on the second floor balconies behind and to the sides of the King. “I hope that the thieves in the capital are honest ones, because it seems there isn’t a guard or soldier tending to any other matter than the arrival of me and my friends.”

  There was some muttering among the court; clearly not everyone was in alignment with the will of the King. Abeland caught one particular glance and nodded. Slowly that person slunk further into the background.

  Abeland raised his left, black-gloved hand, and touched a switch on his monocle. As the soft green glow changed to a piercing gold, Abeland adjusted to his new view of the world.

  “Get out!” yelled King Hamed, standing. He took out a battle-axe hidden beside the throne and leaned on it.

  Abeland tilted his head and smiled. How long have you been itching to say that? he wondered. “What—right now, Your Majesty?” he asked sarcastically, peering around. “We just got here.”

  “Do not pretend to be one of us, speaking our language with that fake local accent,” said King Hamed angrily.

  Abeland frowned. “You do know that if we leave, everyone will be so disappointed. It would be anticlimactic. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the drama? I mean, just imagine what your master Exchequer would say about all this expense. You could have just left a note on the gates saying, ‘Abeland, please go away.’ And by the way, my accent is genuine.”

  “We call it the Director of the Kingdom’s Wealth,” said a voice from behind the King.

  “Thank you,” said Abeland quickly.

  The King banged his axe and gave the man a glare that promised retribution later. He straightened up as much as his aged, bent body would allow, and pulled out an ornate, jewel-encrusted pistol from under his robes. “I will shoot you myself, demon! I will put an end to your menace if you don’t leave my kingdom. You won’t carve up my lands and feed them to your lap dog, the Caixian.”

  Abeland had rewarded the kingdom of Caixa for their quick compliance by giving them pieces of the lands he conquered later. Already a progressive kingdom, they had often been pounded on by their neighbors, and for the first time wanted to be the one delivering the blows and claiming the reward.

  Smiling at the balconies, Abeland twiddled his fingers at the soldiers up there. While it seemed like a greeting, he actually did it to show he had nothing in his hands and thus to reduce the chances of anyone firing unexpectedly. As he lowered his hands, he glanced at the row of silver buckles on the inside of his elbow-length gloves.

  King Hamed, hearing the muttering echo throughout the throne room, turned to glare at his court members behind the throne, and accidentally dropped his axe.

  As it clanged loudly on the floor and slid down the steps, suppressed chuckling and outright laughter broke out. The King, enraged, pointed his pistol at the members of his court.

  “I hear treason in this room!” he yelled at everyone. He turned back to Abeland. “Get out of my kingdom.”

  Abeland rubbed the edge of his mouth with his thumb before stepping up to the crossed pikes in front of him. “To be clear, this posturing is entertaining, but I’m on a strict timeline. You’ve received my terms, and I hereby ask for your agreement.”

  A dandily-dressed prince came to his father’s side. “We can’t do that, father. He doesn’t even have an army.”

  “I know that!” replied the King in frustration. “Let me deal with this.”

  Abeland faced the two soldiers, whose pikes were now pointed right in his face. His monocle caught the light, blinding them. “Gentlemen, if you’d be so kind, I would like to look directly at the King. Also, if he’s going to shoot at me, I’d prefer you weren’t in the line of fire. I promise not to take another step forward. The carpet ends here anyway.” There was something so politely commanding in Abeland’s voice that, to the surprise of many, the soldiers moved aside like double doors opening.

  The King stared at his own men, befuddled. He shook his pistol threateningly at them, but only ended up making it clear to everyone that he’d never used one before.

  Abeland’s entourage took the opportunity to fan out. Putting his arms at his side, Abeland said, “I’ve put my arms away, Your Majesty. I suggest you do the same. Then we can talk.”

  As some of the crowd chuckled, Abeland jerked his arms out behind him abruptly, as if knocking an enemy off his back. Hiding a satisfying series of clicks, he said to the King, “I felt the chilly blast of your displeasure!” He shook a bit more, feeding the crowd. “All posturing aside, can we talk?”

  King Hamed shook his head. “No,” he said, walking down the steps, his ornate pistol pointed squarely at Abeland’s chest.

  Abeland put his left leg back to brace himself and pointed his arms at the King. A quick squeeze of the small metal triggers in his palms released a series of shots from his sleeves. King Hamed flew backward just as explosives went off in the balconies, bringing them crashing down. Abeland covered his face as stone and dust flew everywhere.

  Abeland’s entourage dispatched the stunned soldiers surrounding them, then quickly closed ranks around Abeland.

  “Look at that,” said Abeland, pulling his coat sleeves back and inspecting the custom firearm attached to t
he inside of his gloves, “one of the buckles ripped. I’ll need to get that fixed.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” said Francisco, smiling.

  “Thank you, as always, Francisco.” Abeland glared at the cowering members of the court glancing about in shock and horror. He smiled, then yelled in a commanding voice, “Who’s next in line? I am not here to destroy your kingdom, just to usher in a new age that is better for the people.”

  The whimpering sounds grew louder as people tried to shove each other forward.

  Abeland pointed an arm at one of the grand windows and fired, shattering it in dramatic fashion. “Who is next in line? Who will bring about this new chapter in your country’s history, or is this to be another kingdom that I must have governed?”

  “I abdicate or yield or whatever! I don’t want to be king!” yelled a male voice.

  “Me, too!” yelled another.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” screamed a young, dark-haired woman as she was shoved to the floor beside the dead King.

  “It’s her!” said two adult men trying to back away.

  “Are you next in line?” asked Abeland, gazing down at the terrified figure.

  The woman glanced around, tears in her eyes, and nodded as she stood back up.

  “I have a couple of questions for you—do you mind? What is your name?” asked Abeland, as if they were in a tea room rather than a destroyed throne room.

  “Sarah,” said the young woman, straightening her dress. Her hands were shaking.

  “Are you yet sixteen?”

  ”Yes,” she replied, nodding repeatedly.

  “Excellent,” said Abeland. He bowed gently. “Queen Sarah, may I offer you some advice?”

  She followed his gaze over to her two brothers, who were trying to slink away.

  “Gentlemen,” said Abeland to his men, two of whom quickly apprehended the princes.

  “I recommend that you execute these two. Anyone so willing to sacrifice you in a moment like this won’t think twice about trying to reclaim the throne from you afterward.”