Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  "I would be most grateful, my lord."

  "My Queen thanks you for your service."

  Grimandi followed the guards through the palace. They brought him to a different entrance. The soft-voiced men were waiting. The older man handed him a heavy purse. Grimandi slipped it beneath his shirt.

  A litter was waiting to take him back to the harbor. As it carried him through the silent city, he was already working out the tides. Dawn spread rosy fingers across the sky. A light breeze carried the tang of salt. Grimandi sighed and muttered a prayer of thanks for his deliverance.

  With Shamet's purse heavy against his breast, he spared a moment's thought for his passenger. It had been Edouard de Chamfort's choice to come to this place. How informed that choice had been Grimandi did not know, but it was done now and his part gladly ended. As he was rowed back to the Maria, Grimandi looked towards the open sea and counted the hours until he could put distance between himself and Allesarion. He did not plan to return.

  Chapter 76

  It had been a long night. Lord Shamet yawned. As he entered his rooms, a huge red sun was rising over the city, reminding him the night was gone, and there was much work to do. He went to his desk. The most urgent papers were set ready for him. He began to prepare for another day, though the night's events remained on his mind. The arrival of Ferdinand's nephew troubled him.

  He set the papers aside for a moment to review what had happened and why it concerned him. It was easy enough to analyze. He had advised against offering de Chamfort shelter. His advice had been ignored. That stung his pride. It was rare that Micia ignored his arguments so completely. He feared she might have cause to regret the offer of shelter she had made to Ferdinand's traitorous nephew. Shamet looked up as a soft-footed slave arrived, bowing low.

  "The first magister requests your presence, my lord." The slave bowed again. "He says it is urgent."

  The first magister was attending de Chamfort. Shamet was not surprised by the summons. He hoped it might yet offer a solution to the problem.

  He made his way through marble corridors, past the ever-present guards and slaves. The palace was built around courtyards and most rooms and corridors had outside balconies so the magnificent gardens were always within sight. Dew sparkled on the flowers and leaves. Birds flitted among the trees; the sound of birdsong followed him. Normally the beauty of the gardens was a comfort. This morning, Shamet did not notice them.

  He came to the bedroom where the unwelcome foreign guest lay. Micia's Athari stood watch. An acolyte was standing outside the doors. As Shamet approached, the acolyte raised a hand, asking him to wait. A moment later the young man nodded and opened the door.

  Forewarned that sorcery was being worked in the room, Shamet entered cautiously. The bedroom was dark, with shades drawn to block the early morning sun. It was stiflingly hot; braziers had been placed at each corner. The first magister was standing by the bed. As Shamet approached, he murmured something to his colleagues and the men withdrew leaving them alone at the bedside.

  "Is he dead?" Shamet asked. It would be the neatest solution to the problem.

  The magister bowed. "No, my lord." The man hesitated, weighing his words, no doubt assessing the political undercurrent. "We have identified the nature of the problem. It was not easy. He has been exposed to the Rhiasthe, an ancient, dark magic, not seen in Allesarion for centuries. The wound on his shoulder is where the corruption entered."

  Shamet looked down at the injured man. He could see no change in his condition, and he had looked near dead when he arrived at the palace. Surely, he could not last much longer. "Can you cure him?" Shamet asked. He could not openly suggest he desired any other outcome.

  The magister nodded cautiously. "Perhaps, my lord, but it is complicated. He would be dead already, but for the binding."

  "Binding?" Shamet was not an expert on such matters, but he understood enough to be concerned by the word.

  "He has taken an oath to serve a creature of the Rhiasthe. It is what protects him from the full effects of the dark magic." The magister's face showed both disgust and anxiety. "I cannot think why any man would allow such a thing."

  "If it protects him in cannot be so bad." Shamet saw from the magister's face that he had not understood. "What does this binding do?"

  "It is a way for the Rhiasthe to bind and know their servants. We do not understand what other purpose it serves. As I said this magic has not been seen for centuries."

  "A binding to dark magic. Is it dangerous to others?"

  "No, beyond the chance it might draw a creature of the Rhiasthe to him." Again the Magister spoke cautiously. "He has no power, the binding is little more than a leash placed upon him. It might have been done against his will. I cannot tell."

  Shamet did not like the idea any better. It made the guest yet more unwelcome. "Can you heal him and remove this binding completely?"

  "It will be a long, complicated procedure." The magister clearly did not wish to commit himself. "First we must cleanse the body of the pollution. Then we can attempt to break the binding. He is weak. He may not survive the process. But leaving the binding in place would be a risk."

  Shamet nodded. "See it is done. Send word to me if there is any news." He was taking a risk in making the decision without consulting the queen. But the foreigner was better dead than endangering Micia. He paused at the door, turning to watch the magister and his servants make preparation. He did not linger long.

  Sunlight filled the halls. Shamet's thoughts remained in the sweltering darkness of the bedroom. The magister's uncertainty was disturbing, despite his reassurances on the nature of the problem. Shamet gave orders for extra guards to be placed around the room, and ordered that no one but those attending the first magister be allowed to enter. Then he went to find the Queen.

  He never went to her without feeling a mix of anticipation and apprehension. They called her the scorpion queen for good reason, and he feared her sting as much as any man.

  The Queen's rooms were at the heart of the palace and protected day and night by her personal guard. The Captain of the Athari watched him enter; the man had cold, killer's eyes. It was unsettling to know that these men would kill him in a moment on nothing more than Micia's whim. He understood why she needed this sort of protection. It did not make it any easier to face.

  Shamet found the Queen taking breakfast in her private garden. She was still a young woman and beautiful. A dozen kneeling slaves were in attendance. She waved them away as he approached, and they rose gracefully, eyes cast down, bowing as they backed from her presence.

  Shamet knelt, head bowed, until she summoned him. When he rose, she was watching him. He was one of the few privileged to see her without her veil. Her beauty did not move Shamet. It had never moved him. It was her mind and the fire of her spirit that had drawn him to her. Without those attributes, she could not have survived the palace coup that followed her father's death. Seven royal heirs had died in the coup. Three of them by Micia's order.

  She had been sixteen when her father died. As a young man, Shamet had served her father, but always with an eye to the future. In truth, he had intended to make his place beside her younger brother, the heir, barely eleven years old when their father died. But the boy had not survived the night; he was dead within hours of his father.

  In two bloody, frantic days, Micia revenged her brother and took the crown. Shamet was by her side, amazed and awed by her courage and cruelty. She had a warrior's instincts. He understood she could not have succeeded without displaying that barbarous cruelty, creating a reign of fear. But he had also seen that she took pleasure in that power.

  He had not been sure he could serve her, or that she would let him advise her. The worst of the bloodshed ended, and in the weeks that followed Micia was clever enough to know she needed good counsel. She turned to him, and gradually a rapport developed between them. She came to trust him. Understandably, Micia did not give her trust lightly. He still had nightmares about th
ose days, unsure how he had found the courage to stay close, and the skill necessary to guide her through the storm.

  He discovered she had the makings of a brilliant political brain, and she had a flair for acting, a necessary attribute for a monarch, particularly in the intimate court and world of Allesarion. The city was old, a subtle and dangerous place. One of the first city-states, Allesarion was a place where power and its abuse had a long and violent history.

  Micia had watched her father. She understood what was needed to rule in Allesarion. She created a persona, the veiled, mysterious Queen, which intrigued and bewitched her subjects. Her viciousness inspired awe and fear. There were rumors that she had killed her father and brother. Shamet knew them to be lies, but it was part of Micia's myth. And there was no doubt she was capable of murder on a whim. Sometimes he wondered why he served her. Then he remembered what they had done to her father and brother.

  Given leave to sit, he settled among cushions. Slaves brought platters of fruit and a crystal goblet of watered wine. He did not eat. He never ate in her presence. She was wearing a robe of layered silk, ivory and turquoise, a trace of kohl around her eyes, golden hair loose across her shoulders. The silence lasted some time. She knew he was unhappy with her decision.

  "How is our guest," she asked.

  He had her permission to speak freely, to a point. "Edouard de Chamfort is under the influence of dark magic, and oath bound to some fell creature," he said, not pleased to be baited. "Bad enough you choose to shelter this man and risk Ferdinand's retribution, without this added danger."

  Micia laughed as if the idea of added danger pleased her.

  "You must admit it makes his innocence seem less likely, majesty," said Shamet, unease making him press, despite the risk of her displeasure.

  "We have heard only rumors. We don't know what charges have been made against him. He deserves a chance to answer those charges."

  It seemed reasonable, but Shamet was not convinced. "And if he is guilty, will you hand him back?"

  "No." Micia's look warned him that she was annoyed by the question. Her patience was a thin and fickle shield. "Not at once."

  Shamet was silent, regrouping, assessing. She wanted to repay Ferdinand for the slight he had given her, and Allesarion, when he refused her niece as a bride for his son. Micia sought revenge for even the smallest slight, and this was not a small matter. Members of the Allesarion royal house did not marry sickly foreign princes. Once the offer was made, Ferdinand's refusal was an unforgivable insult. Now she had a chance for revenge and with her prize newly in hand, she was unpredictable and dangerous.

  "And if Ferdinand demands you return his nephew to face justice? A reasonable demand between monarchs."

  She shrugged, selecting a grape as if what they discussed were of little consequence. "If he rages we will answer with concern and soft words. If he speaks of justice and right, we will offer to mediate. A young man has sought refuge with us, in fear of his life. Whatever he is accused of, this man deserves a fair hearing. Our concern is to see he receives it. What can Ferdinand do?"

  Shamet knew it was pointless to speak of caution when she was in this mood. "And this man, bound to dark magic, what if he dies in our care?"

  "We will return the body. No doubt King Ferdinand will be pleased." Micia turned to watch birds swoop between the trees.

  "And if he lives?"

  Micia waved the question away, ending the conversation, confirming for Shamet that her only interest in their guest was the power to humiliate and annoy King Ferdinand. De Chamfort, guilty or innocent meant less than nothing to her.

  Dismissed, he bowed and backed from her presence. Walking from the room, he rolled his shoulders to relieve the knot of tension. There was still a chance the young man would die and the whole matter might be simply resolved.

  Chapter 77

  It was not the first time Mariette had visited the King's dungeons, but it was the strangest. She stood to one side as the jailor slid a key into the lock. The key turned smoothly. With his other hand the jailor pulled the heavy door open. Inside the cell was bare stone, furnished with a table and chair and a narrow bed. Charles de Chamfort was seated beneath the small window. He was reading, with the book angled to catch the meager light. He looked up as the door opened. At the sight of her his face hardened. Up until that moment, Mariette had not really thought about what she would say or do.

  She stepped into the cell and heard the door thud closed behind her. Charles did not move; he did not acknowledge her presence. He looked strained and tired but well enough. She had not expected to find him chained in the dungeons, but this was a less civilized captivity than she had imagined, and it showed the level of Ferdinand's rage. She guessed Arnaud had intervened and managed to deflect a measure of his father's anger. Even the Prince had not managed to get Charles released, or persuade the King against imprisoning an innocent man. It was the talk of the court.

  There was only one chair, and it did not seem he would do her the courtesy of offering it to her. After a moment's hesitation, she sat on the edge of his bed. He had turned back to his book, ignoring her.

  She had come because of the debt she owed his father. "I'm going to Chamfort."

  "What makes you think you will be welcome there?" he asked.

  He must know about the Compact, and that meant his father knew. It took a moment, but she met his gaze. She did not answer his question. "I come as a friend." He turned back to the book, pretending to read. "I understand how hard this must be, you are worried about your family; perhaps you are even a little worried about your brother." She made it deliberately ambiguous. Even so, it was a low blow; she knew Charles could not risk starting a discussion about Edouard. "I came in case you wanted to send a message to reassure your father?"

  The look he gave her would have shattered stone. "My father does not need your comfort." The particular stress he laid on the last word made it an insult. "Haven't you offered comfort enough?"

  She stood up, shocked by his anger. "Whatever trouble your brother is in, it's not my doing."

  He closed the book. For a moment, she thought he would hurl it across the room. He stared at her, and his face was livid with anger; she had never seen him less than civilized. It was obvious there was much he wanted to say, but of course he could not speak here, knowing every word would come to the King's ear. Similarly, she could not make amends by telling him that his brother had escaped Fourges and was safe from the King, at least for now. Though such safety could be little comfort when it only put off the inevitable, in the end Edouard must face the reckoning, such crimes as his could not go unpunished.

  It seemed there was nothing she could say or do. She turned to go just as Charles spoke, soft and low.

  "My brother is not a traitor. If you knew him at all you could never for a moment believe he was. How dare you come here and speak of friendship after the way you have betrayed him?"

  She heard his pain beneath the anger and almost felt sorry for him. Perhaps he did care for his brother. "Of course you believe Edouard is innocent, you are his brother, but you have no true understanding of what he has done, or what he is capable of. I, and others, will make sure he answers for his crimes. I am sorry that it is something your family must face too." She paused by the door. "If you wish me to take a message to your father tell me now."

  "Tell him I'm well and that I have Arnaud's help. The misunderstanding with Ferdinand will soon be resolved. Then, with Arnaud, I will prove Edouard innocent of the charges laid against him."

  She knocked, and the jailer came to let her out. Walking away, she heard the key turn in the lock and shivered. The game had turned deadly now. It was common knowledge Ferdinand had sent two hundred knights north to Chamfort to search for Edouard. No one knew what other orders the knights had been given. She wondered if Ferdinand would take action against his brother, justified or not. The King was unpredictable in his anger.

  The court was waiting the outcome anxiously. Sh
e could not wait, that was why she was going to Chamfort. If she could help Rupert somehow, even if only to tell him what the Compact had discovered about Edouard, so that he knew the truth about his son before he risked all in a conflict with Ferdinand.

  The court was aware that Arnaud was fighting with his father over Charles's imprisonment. The Prince was also furious about the writ for high treason issued against Edouard, but rumor also said there was nothing Arnaud could do to get the writ revoked. This was damming for Edouard, suggesting that the evidence against him was compelling. It also made Edouard's willing return unlikely.

  The knowledge frustrated the Compact as much as it did Prince Arnaud, if for different reasons. First, they had to decide what to do with the evidence they had gathered. After some discussion, Diane had taken their evidence to the King. The Compact's evidence would now be added to the case against Edouard if he should ever stand trial. Rumor had it that Ferdinand would not rest until he had secured the return of his nephew, one way or another.

  She was deep in thought as she left the tower, and she did not see the young man approaching until they were face to face. When she realized it was Prince Arnaud, it was too late to avoid him.

  Arnaud bowed, coldly. "Duchess Mariette."

  The Prince looked pale and tired. Not unusual given his poor health, but this trouble must be an added strain on him. He loved Edouard, and had proved again and again he would take his part and do anything to protect his cousin. She felt sorry for him, and for the toll this was taking on him. In her heart, she knew that Edouard would hate to think his cousin's health suffered because of him.

  She curtsied, stung by the Prince's coldness. Like Charles, he believed she had betrayed Edouard. Perhaps she had, but to betray a lover was a different matter than turning traitor to Valderon and murdering innocents. It was not something she could say to Arnaud. She could imagine what it would do to him to learn the truth about his cousin. Impulsively she reached out and caught his arm. "Arnaud, please don't make yourself ill over this. He's not worth it."