Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  It had been more than a year since he had been to the city and he realized it had been a mistake to stay away so long. Court life was a game you must play regularly, alliances changed with the turn of the breeze. Of course, he had spies in Fourges, friends and informants who wrote to keep him abreast of all that happened at court. It was not the same as being here. It seemed to him that even as he entered the city, he could sense the spider web of networks shudder, the subtle ebb and flow of alliances shifting to accommodate his arrival.

  He had stayed away partly out of respect for Arnaud. That was what he had told himself. He saw now it had been more to protect his position, not to seem to anticipate being named Ferdinand's heir, and to guard against unwanted attention that might damage his chances. All that was gone now and mattered nothing to him, his only concern was to protect his family. His father and Ferdinand's estrangement was well known. It had been a mistake to stand back, Charles realized. They would all have been much better served if he had forged a closer relationship with his uncle and cousin.

  He looked down over the city to the royal palace. Among all the elegant new buildings, it was the Gray Tower that drew his eye. The ancient seat of power, and still the place where the King held court, received petitions and served justice. It hurt to know that his brother might face that justice.

  The cavalcade moved slowly once past the city gates. They followed the clogged road downhill towards the King's bridge. People stopped to stare, recognizing the Chamfort colors. Charles was a little surprised by the attention but happy to be recognized. He was somewhat surprised at the level of interest and the avid whispers. By the time, he reached the bridge a large crowd had formed, and the King's soldiers stood to either side of the road. More of the King's men came to surround his party. Questioned, the commander replied the King wished to ensure his nephew's safety. Charles accepted the offer graciously despite the stir of anxiety. Why would his safety be in doubt? Something had happened.

  His captain came to ride at his side. "There is something strange here, my lord."

  Charles could only agree. But there was nothing to be done about it. "It is an honor guard," he said, and silenced his captain with a look. "Keep the men calm." Honor guard or not there was only one way to deal with this. He waved and smiled to the crowd.

  The King's men kept the Chamfort cavalcade within a tight cordon as they crossed the bridge. On the far side, the gates of the palace were open. The crowd had been cleared. At the urging of the King's captain, the pace increased. They clattered into the tunnel that led up beneath the ancient walls. In the smoky dark, flanked by the King's soldiers, Charles felt a twinge of fear. Saints of mercy, what had happened?

  He had intended to speak to Mariette de Montmercy before anyone else, certain she was somehow involved in the mess that had embroiled Edouard. Before he had even dismounted, the King's captain was standing at his stirrup with an escort of six guards.

  "You will accompany us, your grace." It was not really a request. The Chamfort men did not like it and began to close around him protectively. There were a few tense moments before Charles could calm the situation. It was almost as if Ferdinand wanted to provoke an ugly scene between Chamfort and the crown.

  Whatever his uncle intended there was no choice but to obey the King's command. He called his captain to him. "See the men settled, and keep them calm. This will be sorted out." He laid a hand on the captain's arm and spoke softly. "Keep good order. There cannot be trouble here." The man nodded once.

  His secretary, Claude, and his valet, Emil, had dismounted and were watching anxiously. He smiled to reassure them. "Wait for me in my rooms. Do not send word to my father until I return." It was as much as he dare say. They were experienced men and would know what to do.

  He dismounted and handed his horse to one of his men. The King's captain was waiting. Charles walked to join him. The man fell in at his side; guards flanked them.

  Charles felt a twinge of annoyance; he was being treated like a criminal. "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "To the King."

  A straightforward, if obvious, answer; no one else would summon him in this manner. It did not answer the question he had asked. Where are we going, it was important. They led him across the courtyard. Ahead lay the King's private apartments and the Gray Tower. If he was taken to the Tower, he could expect a public audience. A humiliation of some degree. His only comfort was a certainty that there was no crime Ferdinand could charge him with. The same could not be said of Edouard. The thought scared him. If this was about Edouard, if he was to be questioned about what he knew of his brother's actions, he was not prepared, obvious though the possibility now seemed. Saints of mercy but it was a mess.

  Charles held his breath as the guards led him towards the Gray Tower, and then released it as they took a path that skirted the Tower's eastern corner and headed towards the King's apartments. He wondered if this was all arranged, the armed escort through the city, the route of the walk, all planned to unnerve him. It was working. He might have nothing to fear, but he was afraid for Edouard. And for what trouble this might bring to Chamfort.

  They brought him to Ferdinand's private rooms. To the King's study. The door had barely closed behind him when a voice roared.

  "Where is your accursed brother?" Ferdinand was standing by the window. Even without the yelling, one glance at his face was enough to show that he was in a dangerous temper.

  "With the army, at Ralmadre or at Etrives, sire," Charles answered quickly, and honestly as far as he knew. "If by god's grace he survived the fighting."

  Ferdinand turned so the light was behind him. Charles could not see the King's face, whilst his own was exposed. A calculated movement, as was the blunt attack. The present silence. None of this was chance. It was easy enough to see that something had happened, but without knowing what, he was blind to the implications of anything he said. But it would be a mistake to seem guarded.

  "Uncle, what has happened?" he asked. "Is my brother safe?"

  Ferdinand remained by the window, watching him.

  "Is Edouard all right?" he asked again. He wanted to know, and lack of concern would seem unnatural, a sign of complicity. The silence became unbearable. "We have heard nothing at Chamfort." He did not mention the defeat at Ralmadre.

  Ferdinand moved away from the window. He prowled the room and then settled at his desk where sheaves of papers were set in ragged piles. Some were torn and muddy. All were creased. Urgent dispatches from the army, Charles guessed.

  Etrives lay to the south of Fourges. It took three days for couriers to reach the city. Less if the courier rode all night, but longer if the army was marching in Ettivar. Ferdinand would have news from the army within a few days, but he might not release the news to his court. At Chamfort they waited not only on the release of the latest news but for it to travel north. Charles calculated that the King could have more than a week's worth of news of which he knew nothing.

  "Is my brother all right?" He was growing angry. Whatever his mistakes, Edouard was loyal to this man. He fought in Ferdinand's army, risking his life, as did the Chamfort knights. "If something has happened, I have a right to know."

  Ferdinand laughed. It was not pleasant. "I will ask you once more to tell me what you know of your brother's whereabouts. Think carefully before you answer; your brother faces charges of murder and high treason."

  Murder and high treason, saints of mercy. It took a moment to find his voice and speak, "I have told you all I know." He swallowed once. "I cannot believe my brother is a traitor."

  Ferdinand laughed. A brutal sound. "It matters little what you believe. I have proof. And I will find him, if you have a care for the safety of your family you will tell me where he is so it is done sooner."

  "I don't know." A thought struck him. "He is not at Chamfort."

  Ferdinand stepped closer. "I will know whether that is true soon enough."

  Charles took a breath. The King's men were on the way to Chamfort.
Edouard could have arrived since he left. But surely if there was trouble of this scale his brother would not risk returning home.

  "Perhaps you need time to think," said Ferdinand.

  For a moment, Charles was relieved. He did need time to think, but then Ferdinand's guards surrounded him. He realized what was going to happen and opened his mouth to protest. He did not get a chance.

  "Perhaps a little hardship will help jog your memory," said Ferdinand, cold as ice. "Lock him up."

  Chapter 74

  Battered and sea torn, the caravel Maria limped into Sarall harbor nine days after setting sail from Fourges. Captain Grimandi scowled as he surveyed the vessel's splintered mainmast. He watched his bruised and weary crew struggling to cut free ripped sails. A running tally of damages spooled in his head.

  Fists planted on his hips, he cursed softly. The storm had been bad, worse than he had expected. He should have run back to harbor and ridden out the storm in shelter. But the only harbors available lay in Valderon, and it turned out the passenger he carried prevented him seeking shelter in any of King Ferdinand's ports. Or at least made risking the storm the safer option. He hadn't forgiven Edouard de Chamfort for forcing him to take that risk. Though the failing in miscalculating the storm's course and strength had been his. He had not thought that the risk to his vessel, crew and profit would be so high.

  If he had known, things might have gone differently. There were other factors to consider. Roslaire de Lyon had brought him the passenger. There was ongoing profit to be made if he impressed Roslaire. He sniffed and spat. Profit from this voyage looked a long way distant. Grimandi scrubbed a hand over his salt-crusted face and wiped eyes red-rimmed and itching with weariness.

  He had known there was some risk from the outset, why else had Roslaire chosen to send the passenger with him on the Maria rather than on one of his own ships. Of course, he had not known the full nature of the risk. Grimandi was a practical man. None of that could be changed now. With a last look to the horizon, and a few words of instruction to his first mate, he left the deck and made his way down the wooden steps, working his way through the Maria's cramped passages to the one small cabin.

  He opened the door without knocking. Edouard de Chamfort was beyond caring about such niceties. Grimandi scowled, his passenger was close to being beyond all worries. After everything he had risked, the man was sick to dying, damn him. Grimandi closed the door softly and crossed to the narrow bunk where the young man lay. De Chamfort had passed from the wild tossing of fever. Now he lay unnaturally still, his skin and lips pale, his chest barely rising. Grimandi had nursed enough men through fever to know none of this was a good sign.

  He had done his best for the boy. From the first day of his sickness, the day of the storm. Soon after Grimandi learned the truth about his passenger, he had found de Chamfort barely conscious, shivering in the grips of a fever. He had used all his best remedies. It did not help that he could not understand the nature of the ailment.

  The young man, Grimandi tried to avoid even thinking his name, had a small wound on his shoulder, deep but clean. There was nothing else to explain the fever, or the collapse that followed. Grimandi laid a hand against the young man's forehead, shaking his head. He had done all he could. With brisk efficiency, he sponged his patient's lips and dribbled a little water down his throat. He did not waste time on broth. The boy was beyond eating. It was doubtful he would last the night.

  Hands on hips, Grimandi weighed his options. There was no profit in a corpse. And de Chamfort offered the only hope for profit from this cursed voyage. Roslaire had been close mouthed, though he had hinted at a measure of risk, and the size of purse he offered had been beyond the price for a simple passage.

  Grimandi supposed he might never have known the young man's name but for the storm. With wind and waves lashing the ship, de Chamfort had explained the situation, whether from a sense of honor or self-preservation, Grimandi could not know. He had not been pleased to learn he carried the King's traitorous nephew, though de Chamfort denied the charge of treason. It changed nothing; his passenger was hunted throughout Valderon. The penalty for aiding or sheltering him would be at the least, prison and forfeit of his caravel and goods. Grimandi had weighed the odds and decided to take his chance with the storm. As de Chamfort had kindly informed him, returning to Fourges might earn him and his crew a share in the traitor's death.

  Grimandi guessed the boy had struggled with whatever ailed him since he boarded the Maria. Grimandi might have dropped him overboard and turned back to make repairs in a Valderon harbor. The thought had entered his head. But Roslaire was a bad man to displease. He had hinted that Queen Micia of Allesarion would welcome the passenger, and reward the captain who brought him safely to her. If not for the second half of that promise, Grimandi might have risked Roslaire's displeasure. De Chamfort would have ended quietly at the bottom of the ocean. The Maria would have been safe in harbor this past week. It was too late to bemoan fate. The risk had been taken, and Grimandi was determined to have his due payment. He would get no thanks from Queen Micia for delivering a dead body, so it had best be done quickly.

  Leaving his patient tucked beneath a blanket and strapped safely into the bunk, Grimandi made his way on deck. As the Maria dropped anchor he could see a half dozen other storm battered vessels limping into harbor. He frowned. Any of the newcomers might carry news from Fourges and increase the risk to him a thousand fold. It was another reason why he must act fast if he wanted his charge to receive a welcome. Micia's dislike for King Ferdinand was well known. But would it extend to offering shelter to a traitorous nephew; the man who, according to dockside rumor, had murdered the King's most prized commander. Grimandi thought it would, why else would de Chamfort have risked Allesarion and the scorpion queen?

  He ordered a boat to be lowered and chose a couple of men to man the oars. Then he went to find the first mate. Adam was a competent, unflappable man; together they had survived many adventures. Grimandi chose his words carefully.

  "I've business at the palace and it will take some time," he paused for emphasis. "I've tended to our passenger." He had not told Adam or the crew just who they carried.

  "How is he?" Adam asked. The crew were nervous, leery of a noble passenger dying on board.

  "No better. I hope to find someone to take him off our hands."

  "At the palace!"

  "Aye," he met Adam's gaze and saw the eye flicker of calculation. His first mate was halfway to guessing. "It needs to be done quick. And I'm not sure what will come of it, so stand ready."

  Adam nodded. He had seen enough deals go sour to understand, even if the stakes were higher than usual here. "I'll see the crew get the most pressing repairs finished. There'll be time enough for shore leave when the worst is done."

  "Aye we need to be ready, but don't tell them too much. Keep 'em sweet. There's profit in this if all goes well."

  The boat was in the water ready, two men waiting at the oars. He walked to the rail. Adam followed scratching his neck absently.

  "And if someone comes for him?"

  Grimandi had not thought of this. He gazed across the harbor, searching the incoming vessels. Looking for familiar names, he saw several carried Valderon colors. "It's too soon. No one can know what ship he took or where he was headed." He thought of Roslaire and frowned. "But if someone does come, let them take him if they'll do it peaceful. We've risked enough." There would be no profit in bloodshed, and no one to free them from an Allesarion jail. He could see Adam working it out. The first mate was no fool. Once the idea was there, the Vallentin features were enough to identify their passenger.

  "He's the one they were hunting the night we left Fourges?" asked Adam quietly.

  Grimandi nodded. He did not let on that it had been a surprise to him too.

  Adam whistled at the risk. He glanced around before saying softly, "I saw him win the King's Tournament. It was a dirty fight against one of the King's knights. The boy got cut up,
it shouldn't have been allowed, but he won anyway." He leaned closer. "Do you think it's true what they're saying about him turning traitor?"

  "The truth don't matter much." Or so he hoped. "I reckon it's true enough that St Andre's dead; it was all over the docks in Fourges." He shook his head, thinking he had been a fool not to see it the moment Roslaire brought the boy on board under cover of darkness, and offered him a king's ransom in jewels. "The King's men were hunting hard that night." There was no changing it now; the course must be steered. He laid a hand on the rail. "Keep her safe."

  Adam nodded. Grimandi shimmied down the ladder. He landed softly in the boat. The rowers leaned to the oars as he settled in the prow. He watched the Maria recede, quelling a flurry of nerves. Adam knew enough now to have her ready. The crew had seen dozens of scrapes, most of them were old hands, well able to handle themselves in a fight. Grimandi reassured himself, his boat was safe for a few hours, and once he had the problem sorted they would put to sea. The rest of the repairs could wait for a safer harbor. The crew would understand.

  When they reached the landing, he sent the boat back to the Maria. He told them to look out for his return. Stepping ashore, he could feel the afternoon heat lurking beneath the sea breeze. The village and harbor of Sarall, which served the city of Allesarion, baked in the sun. By the harbor, the houses were plain, plastered white with flat roofs.

  Grimandi walked inland. Behind the harbor lay a small market square. A line of chained slaves shuffled down the gangplank off another vessel. He heard the overseer's whip crack, and took a breath of dusty air. A tingle of apprehension slid along his spine. A sea crossing to Allesarion brought you to a different world. This was not Valderon where councils and laws made some effort to keep even the most powerful nobles in check. In the ancient city-state of Allesarion, Micia, known as the scorpion queen, ruled absolutely. Justice was at her whim.