Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  Martil thought quickly. There was no harm in the question, and she seemed to be accepting his story, which, he had to admit, did not have the ring of truth. What the Dragon Sword thought of it, he neither knew nor cared.

  ‘I’ll be back at nightfall,’ he promised, before ducking away, just in case she had more questions.

  Creeping down the stairs and out the side door was easy enough, and he lost himself in the crush of people on the street by the time he walked past the front door with its bored guards. With the thought of what awaited driving him on, his step was eager and strong.

  Milly silently watched Martil sneak down the stairs, then walked up the corridor to the room where she knew Sergeant Kesbury was relaxing. Nott had warned her that Martil was a man on the edge, and she did not for a moment believe his story of wanting to spend a few hours of quiet worship in the Church of the Sun. But, as a daughter of the city, she knew that the notorious brothel the Golden Gate was near the church. If she had stopped Martil leaving, she knew he would have tried to slip out of his room unseen. At least this way she could follow him, and ensure he did not end up getting killed. But she would need help.

  Kesbury was sitting down, feet up on the table, alternating between running a sharpening stone down his sword blade and chewing on some bread and cheese.

  ‘Sifthter,’ he said through a mouthful, and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Sergeant, I need your help,’ she said crisply. ‘The captain has slipped out to visit a brothel and we need to watch his back.’

  ‘Watch his back…?’ Kesbury said in confusion, flushing a little.

  Milly sighed. ‘Poor choice of words. He’s gone to the Golden Gate, do you know it?’

  ‘Know it? I used to work there!’ Kesbury snorted, before hastily adding, ‘As a guard, Sister.’

  ‘Well, we need to make sure he gets there and back safely. Come with me.’

  ‘Of course, Sister.’ Kesbury sheathed his sword and grabbed a last piece of cheese. ‘I’m ready.’

  Martil found the Golden Gate easily enough, even though it did look a little different in the light. Gone were the torches and men standing on guard outside. But when he stepped though the gate, a pair of guards in the unusual pink surcoats appeared out of the foliage, lead-tipped staves at the ready.

  ‘Do you know where you are going, sir?’ one asked gruffly.

  Martil sighed. There were no Ralloran accents here now. But he did not need to speak, he just held out the token. The guards inspected it carefully, then moved aside.

  ‘Welcome back, sir,’ the guard grunted.

  Martil hurried down the carriage driveway, his boots crunching on the gravel. This stupid little token was going to prove it was worth some of the gold he had spent on it. The guards on the front door were likewise impressed by the token, and waved him inside.

  He entered into the light and the warmth with a delightful air of anticipation. It was just as he remembered it, with the colourful divans and rugs—and the exotic paintings on the walls. At this time of day, there were only a couple of other men in the room, both of them drinking and both with half-naked women on their laps.

  ‘Welcome, sir,’ Sillat, the brothel owner, appeared at Martil’s left elbow. ‘What can we do for you today?’

  Martil flashed the token at her, and she smiled broadly, before taking it from his hand. Producing a small knife from under her dress, she carefully carved a notch in the side before handing it back with a flourish. Martil pocketed it again, relaxing a little that she had not commented on him. Obviously a brothel this size would have many clients but not to be recognised was nevertheless a relief.

  ‘So, who would you like to see today?’ she inquired, opening the cupboard behind the counter which held the coloured bellpulls.

  ‘Is Lahra free?’ he asked casually, hoping she would be and wondering what he would do if she was not. Still, there would be other women…

  Sillat winked. ‘Can you be swift?’

  ‘What?’ Martil flushed.

  Sillat chuckled throatily. ‘It’s just that she has to leave for another appointment in a half-turn of the hourglass. If you want your full turn, there are other ladies, but if the half-turn is sufficient for you, I’m sure Lahra can…fit you in,’ she suggested, with a raise of an eyebrow.

  Martil knew he was supposed to smile at that, but it was an effort.

  He nodded ‘A half-turn of the hourglass is fine.’

  ‘Excellent! Wait there.’

  Sillat tugged Lahra’s bellpull, and then gestured to her door.

  Martil walked over, past the over-stuffed divans and chairs, dimly registering that a carriage was arriving, judging by the crunch of gravel, the cracks of a whip and the shouts of coachmen. Probably a nobleman, he guessed. Well, even if he were also for Lahra, he had the first turn. Let the noble wait.

  Lahra opened the door almost as soon as he got there, and he saw her dull eyes widen in surprise and recognition.

  Not wanting her to blurt out his name, or what he had done there on his last visit, he stepped through the door, shutting it behind him.

  ‘You!’ Lahra hissed angrily. ‘You’ve got some nerve! After what happened last time!’

  Martil remembered, with a guilty surge, that his last visit had seen her tricked into impersonating the Queen, and probably resulted in her being imprisoned for a while. He had thought she might have forgotten by now, or at least forgiven. Still, she worked for gold, didn’t she?

  ‘Sssh! I can explain! And I have gold!’ Martil uttered what he hoped were the magic words. He had spent enough on the bloody token already to not want to hand more over to this whore, but if that was what it took…

  ‘I never got my two gold pieces!’ she almost howled.

  Desperately, Martil fumbled in his pouch and came out with three gold coins and a couple of silver.

  ‘Look! Let’s just go in your room and talk about it,’ he suggested, tucking the coins away again.

  Lahra’s expression softened a little at the sight of the gold. ‘Right, follow me,’ she ordered.

  He hurried behind her as she stormed down the passage. The combination of high-heeled shoes and short dress focused his mind away from the gold and onto something else entirely.

  She held open the door.

  ‘So tell me why I had to spend two turns of the hourglass in the dungeon, why I lost my two gold pieces, and why Sillat only gave me half the usual fee for appearing at King Gello’s birthday party and coronation party!’ she ranted.

  ‘Well, you must realise what is going on in the country,’ Martil began, not sure if he should try to have a political discussion with her and not really wanting to waste any time, either. The sand in the hourglass was trickling away.

  ‘I know that the King himself calls for me! I know that I appear at the finest parties in the land!’ she declared. ‘And you put all that at risk!’

  ‘He’s not the King, he’s a usurper, and he’s just using you to humiliate the real Queen! As soon as he has control of the country, he will lose his interest in you—surely you see that?’ Martil argued.

  He realised, with a sinking feeling, that she was not going to listen to reason. If he had apologised profusely and offered her a pouch of gold, it might have been a different matter. But, looking at the expression on her face, that was probably out of the question now.

  ‘So you’re still with that Queen? The one who was rude to me?’

  ‘Well…’ Martil temporised, unsure of what to say.

  ‘Are you here to kidnap me again?’ she demanded.

  ‘I never kidnapped you! And I’m only here to…’ Martil trailed off as she walked across to a red bellpull and hauled on it with all her strength. ‘What was that? Are you calling for another girl to replace you?’ Even as he spoke, he knew with a sinking feeling that was not going to be the case.

  ‘The King himself is on his way here to see me! I know where my loyalties lie—I am a servant of the Crown!’ Lahra declared defiantly. />
  Martil swore. ‘That bellpull was for the guards, wasn’t it?’

  The pounding of feet in the passage answered his question for him. Cursing, he ducked out of the room. He was angry; with himself for not handling this better and doubly angry that he would not be able to handle her at all now.

  A pair of burly men in the brothel’s signature pink surcoats charged at him, the lead guard swinging a lead-tipped stave at his head. Martil dodged the staff and it slammed into the doorframe. He used his left arm to lock the staff against the wall, then brought his right elbow up into the man’s face. Blood spurted and Martil heard the nose break but as soon as the man reeled away, hands clutching at his face, he grabbed the staff. He had never used a quarterstaff before but he hefted it confidently enough.

  The second guard hesitated and made the fateful mistake of glancing at where his moaning companion was attempting to stem the flow of blood from his face. Martil pounced at him. Before the man could bring his own staff down to block it, Martil jabbed the heavy tip into the guard’s stomach and, when he folded over, slammed the other end into his temple. The man went down like a sack of carrots.

  Lahra watched this from the doorway, open-mouthed. Martil decided to keep hold of the staff. He was feeling in a bloody mood now and rather hoped he would get the chance to use it. He guessed that more guards would be arriving at any moment, so pulled a pair of gold pieces from his pouch and tossed them to her.

  ‘That’s the payment I promised you for helping rescue the Queen. Enjoy your fame while it lasts, because I will kill Gello and every noble who supports him,’ he swore.

  She just stared at him, incapable of speech.

  Furious, Martil stormed back down the passage to the over-decorated entrance room. He did not just walk through—he jerked open the door and stepped back, staff held low. A howling guard in a pink surcoat leaped through the door, not wielding a staff but a short club. Coldly, Martil measured his approach and jabbed the end of his staff into the man’s throat. Choking and gasping, the man flew backwards and Martil stepped over him and into the main room, staff at the ready.

  Three guards were waiting for him, all with the lead-tipped staves. Martil bellowed with rage, using the noise to startle them, then leaped to the attack. One end of his staff buried itself in the groin of the man to his left, who collapsed, a silent scream contorting his face. The man to his right caught the other end in his stomach, then the staff came up to block a blow from the man in front. Martil recovered from the block and rammed an end on the last man’s foot before belting him across the face as he jumped in agony.

  Martil looked around the room before throwing the staff down. Nobody said anything as they watched the moaning, bleeding guards flop around on the floor.

  ‘I’m leaving now. You can use the gold you owe me to pay the healer’s bill for your useless guards,’ he told a stunned Sillat. ‘I would advise no one else to try to stop me.’

  He walked across the room and opened the door. He had downed six men inside—he doubted there would be any more around and, even if there was a pair still on the gate, they would not pose much of a problem. If he had faced six Rallorans, now that would have been a different matter, but these soft Norstalines couldn’t fight their way out of a church school playground. However, the satisfaction of having downed six men was not exactly making up for missing out on an afternoon in bed with Lahra. Now what was he going to do? Return to the chapter house?

  He slammed the door behind him, still unsure what to do, and turned to see a full squad of heavy cavalrymen encircle him. Behind them was an officer in a red surcoat. And behind him was what Martil remembered as the Royal Carriage—obviously now being used by Gello.

  ‘So what do we have here?’ the officer sneered. ‘Planning an attempt on the King’s life, were you? Take him!’

  All thought vanished from Martil’s mind and, before he even realised what he was doing, his hands had flashed down to his swords.

  ‘Come on then, you bastards!’ he roared.

  The ten men, all in heavy mail hauberks, and carrying sword and shield, slowly closed in.

  ‘Captain Kay! Get your men into action or you will never hold rank in the King’s army again!’ Beq screamed the order, spittle spraying into the air.

  Kay was struggling to keep up. First the Queen had appeared, then all these armed men, then the Lord of Bellic had turned out to be a Berellian assassin, then Romon the bard—who had been hand-picked to tell Kay and his men why they should fight for Gello—had gone with the Queen, and now everyone was running around in confusion. The Queen and her men were lost in the maze of barracks buildings, and the Berellians were after them. Beq had already mustered Company One, which was made up of men who had sworn the loyalty pledge to Gello, and sent them chasing after the Queen. Kay’s instinct was to get his men under control—sending companies of men chasing into the barracks was just likely to get them killed. But Beq was bellowing that he wanted the Queen stopped and killed.

  ‘Now, Kay!’

  Kay’s mind cleared. He would capture the Queen, and ask her what was going on. Something was not right here. But he would find the answers.

  ‘Companies to me!’ he bellowed.

  Merren had instinctively flinched as the Berellians hurled their evil-looking darts at her, cringing as she waited for them to rip home. Instead, they all flew past her and she realised with a shock of relief that Barrett must have intervened to make them miss. Her relief was short-lived, however, as the Berellian Champion snarled in fury, drew his sword and leaped at her. She had seen him kill four of her men so far, including Wime, and even as she drew the dagger at her belt, knew there was no way to defend against him.

  ‘Die, you Bitch Queen!’ the Berellian howled as he sprang at her. ‘Die for Zorva!’

  Merren brought up her dagger, determined to at least go down fighting.

  Time seemed to slow, the Berellian’s leap seemed to take forever—and then a man hurled himself at the Berellian. The pair went over in a crash, and Merren recognised Forde. Before she could do anything else, she saw the Berellian’s short sword bite deep into Forde’s side, saw the blood spurt out and the shock and pain register on the militiaman’s face. But Forde just wrapped his arms around the Berellian, hanging on as the assassin plunged his sword home again.

  ‘Run, my Queen!’ Forde cried, then choked.

  ‘Help him!’ Merren appealed, but Rocus was there now, the big guardsman grabbing her arm.

  ‘It’s too late for him, my Queen—and if we stay, too late for us!’

  Even as he spoke, a pair of the Berellians threw darts at her, which slammed viciously into Rocus’s shield.

  Merren allowed herself to be pulled away, and forced her legs to start running, as the Berellian tried to free himself from Forde who, even in death, clung tightly to the assassin.

  ‘Move it!’ Rocus shouted at his men.

  The rangers had been dealt with by Barrett, but the exhausted wizard was now being dragged along by a pair of men. A dazed Sendric was being supported by the bard.

  ‘Not far now!’ Tarik urged them on through the gate.

  Merren, hoping to remain unseen, wiped away a tear.

  ‘He died well, my Queen,’ Rocus said softly. ‘A death we can all envy. He swore he would save your life one day, and he did.’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to have to die for me,’ Merren said thickly.

  ‘I’m not too keen on it myself, but some things are worth dying for. Now we just have to make his sacrifice worthwhile,’ Rocus puffed as they ran out of the gate.

  The wooded training grounds with the oak which was their escape route was barely fifty paces away. Barrett, who had been swigging water and stuffing honey treats into his mouth, was now able to run unaided and Merren began to hope they would get away without any more losses.

  When she worried about being able to help Martil, Sister Milly drew comfort from the sheer bulk of Kesbury. He was very reassuring. The crowds on the street
parted to go around him, even though he was covered from head to foot in the robe of a novice priest. They were not able to keep Martil in sight but Milly was confident he would be going straight to the brothel.

  ‘How do we get inside without the guards knowing? They might believe a novice priest wants to pay them a visit but they’ll never believe that of me,’ she hissed, as they watched from across the road.

  ‘Easy,’ Kesbury said confidently, ‘follow me.’

  He led her down the street, to a much smaller gate, this one hidden by some thick bushes.

  ‘Anyone around?’ Kesbury asked softly.

  Milly looked around carefully then clutched at Kesbury’s arm.

  ‘What is it?’

  She gestured wordlessly as the Royal Carriage clattered past them and swung into the driveway of the Golden Gate, accompanied by a squad of cavalrymen in full armour.

  ‘Aroaril’s beard! Do you think Gello himself is in there?’ Kesbury breathed.

  Milly shook her head. ‘Not enough guards. He is always accompanied by a full squadron. It seems he wants the support of the people but he does not have their love.’

  ‘Still, we’d better get in there. That could put the captain off a bit.’ Kesbury took the thin chain that locked the gate, and grunted with the effort of hauling at it until a link stretched enough for him to slip it off, open the gate and lead her inside.

  ‘They probably won’t go inside—it’d upset the paying customers—but they’ll be waiting when the captain steps out. And if he sees a bunch of troopers standing around, he’s just as likely to take them on as he is to try and slip past,’ Kesbury whispered, as he led the way through the lush gardens.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. He always was a mad bastard.’ Kesbury grinned. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Milly found that strange. For herself, she was sure the pounding of her heart was loud enough to give them away. She was acutely conscious of how dangerous this was. She had seen her Archbishop seized and arrested in front of her; now Father Nott had placed Martil into her responsibility and she felt acutely the pressure of such a charge. Irrationally, she wondered how someone as large as Kesbury could move so quietly.