Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

The coliseum came into sight, and he was relieved not to find any sign of disturbance. As they drew closer, Cassio urged his horse alongside.

  "How will you handle this, my lord?"

  "I don't know yet. First we must endeavor to find out the Queen's part in this game." He was sure this would soon become obvious.

  The barracks were on the far side of the coliseum. As they approached, Shamet could see twenty of the Athari gathered before the gatehouse. They were still mounted and demanding entry. Those inside were refusing. By the time he reached them insults were being exchanged.

  Shamet was pleased to note that the Athari were led by one of the second rank Captains. If Vayne had been present, this task might have been impossible.

  He rode forward, Cassio and the scribes following. "Good morning, Captain. Is there some problem?"

  The Captain looked angry. He dismounted and bowed low. "Lord Shamet." His tone conveyed his anger rather too plainly. "The Queen's guest is inside. The guard will not allow us access."

  Shamet left him to struggle with this for a moment. "You wish to ensure Lord Edouard's safe return to the palace?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Perhaps I can be of assistance. If I may speak with the guards?" It seemed it might be easier than he had hoped. Trouble could yet be avoided or, more honestly, delayed to a more opportune time. He did not doubt that this incident would spark the long running feud to flame. That was not his first concern.

  Admitted to the compound, he left Cassio to monitor the situation at the gate and then went in search of de Chamfort. Though his morning had been disrupted and his equilibrium disturbed, Shamet had not had time to register any response to the cause of this upset. Perhaps it was relief that the matter was turning out to be less difficult than it had seemed, but he found himself feeling strangely benign towards their missing guest.

  He found Lord Edouard breaking his fast with the senior gladiators. That in itself was the stuff of myths. Shamet's own love of the arena was as great as any in the city. A sight of their guest's bruised face and the pointed words of greeting Shamet had prepared stuck in his throat.

  "Good morning, Lord Shamet," said Lex. "We are not responsible for your guest's injuries." He indicated de Chamfort. "He fought Rudolfo." Lex grinned. "And earned half the purse."

  "A street fight…" Shamet took a breath. He tried to regain his composure, but found he could think of nothing to say in response to this news.

  "I have caused you trouble," said de Chamfort, rising. It was impossible to tell whether his regret was genuine.

  Shamet exchanged a glance with Lex and then looked back to their guest. "And you came here how?"

  "It's a long story. I'm sure you would find it boring," said de Chamfort quickly.

  Lex was staring fixedly at the table. The other gladiators had departed. Shamet realized that de Chamfort was unlikely to think him an avid follower of the arena. And perhaps that was as well. He cleared his throat. "We should leave, before there is trouble," he spoke severely and looked to Lex. "It seems we owe you thanks."

  The gladiator rose. He was wearing a tunic that displayed his muscles and scars. He bowed to Shamet and then offered his fist to de Chamfort. "It has been my pleasure."

  After a moment, de Chamfort matched the gesture and touched knuckles. Shamet watched surprised. These were not men he easily could imagine finding common ground. A Valderon nobleman and a gladiator. Edouard de Chamfort was grinning. Shamet realized that their guest had no realization of the cachet a gesture of respect and friendship from Lex bestowed.

  Lex walked to the gates with them. This was not something Shamet was pleased about, but due to his respect for the gladiator and his general bemusement he let it go. The small crowd that had gathered cheered at the sight of Lex. The Athari waiting looked angry. They used their horses to push the crowd back until the Captain called them to order. He looked very unhappy. Shamet guessed something of the story had got out. No doubt there had been some baiting and jibes at their expense. This duty had not gone well for the Captain.

  "You've spoilt our fun," said Lex.

  "I'm sure it will not be long delayed." Shamet tried to sound severe. "Please do not let things get out of hand. The Queen is tolerant of this feud, but there are limits." He was not sure this was true, insofar as the matter remained between the gladiators and the Athari.

  "Tell the Athari that," said Lex.

  Shamet sighed, grateful to see Cassio bringing their horses forward. The gates opened and they rode out to be immediately surrounded and swept away by the Athari. The ride through the city streets was rather too exciting, leaving overturned stalls and barrows in their wake, but once they were beyond the city and climbing towards the palace things settled and he had time to draw breath.

  He glanced to de Chamfort, riding silently at his side. There were a dozen warnings and reprimands he should issue. Instead, he found himself suppressing a smile. He replaced it with a frown and turned back. "You realize this adventure could have gone badly wrong?"

  "You sound like my brother," said de Chamfort, absently. He turned in the saddle so he could meet Shamet's gaze with his good eye. "I am sorry. I intended it to be a quiet visit to the city." He glanced back down the hill. "Will there be trouble for the gladiators?"

  "Oh, there will certainly be trouble," said Shamet. "But it's not the gladiators you should be worried about." His warning was met with a grin. Shamet turned away to hide a smile.

  Chapter 88

  As the days passed, Edouard was pleased to find that, despite Shamet's warning, there were no repercussions from his illicit visit to the city. There were more guards assigned to his care, and they were more vigilant. The Athari came to watch him train. From the looks he received, it was obvious he had made enemies among the Athari. It did not concern him; it was not as if they had ever been his friends.

  The bruises from his fight with Rudolfo lingered. His eye was still swollen. As the anticipation of sanctions and the excitement of his adventure wore off, life returned to the familiar routine. Julius served him, blank faced and vaguely disapproving. There was no sign of Ti and Markus. As Julius handed him clothes, he thought of asking the older man about them but kept silent.

  The morning sun was hot, and the beating he had taken from Rudolfo left him stiff and struggling to complete his routine exercise. By the time he returned to the courtyard he was exhausted. He did not shirk the rest of his training; at Chamfort there was never an excuse that would get you out of training. His father insisted that an enemy would not care if you were tired or hurt. Edouard worked until each movement was completed perfectly. It took him longer than usual. Finished he barely had the energy to drag his aching body up the stairs to his rooms. Serenaded by the birds and the delicate splash of waterfalls, Edouard was too distracted by the effort of breathing and trying not to puke to notice much.

  He stepped into the cool rooms and sighed with relief. Before he took another step his arms were caught in a vicious grip, and he was forced to his knees, head pushed to the floor. Edouard did not struggle. In the moment, before he was pushed to his knees he had glimpsed a woman. And he had seen these were not his normal guards. These men wore white tunics embroidered with Micia's personal insignia, the running leopard. The same leopard was tattooed on their shoulders. If these men were Athari then the woman he had seen must be Micia. He gritted his teeth against the painful grip, refusing to utter a sound.

  The room settled to stillness. The birds were still singing as if nothing had happened. A shaft of sunlight fell like a spear across the marble floor in front of where he knelt. He wondered again where Ti and Markus were. The thought chilled him. But they had played no part in his escape to the city. A few moments in her presence and he was not sure whether that would even matter to Micia. In the silence, he heard the rustle of silk and caught a glimpse of jeweled slippers. They called her the scorpion queen. He did not attempt to look up.

  "Sieur Edouard." Her voice was beautiful, soft as honey; it
held power and an unmistakable hint of danger. The stress she placed on his title pricked his nerves and temper. She was mocking him. "Have we welcomed you, sheltered you from your enemies?" she asked.

  As the silence lengthened, he said through gritted teeth. "You have, gracious majesty. And I am grateful for it."

  A sigh, soft as the breeze. As she passed, he could smell the delicate scent of her perfume. She spoke again, her voice soft, puzzled. "You show your gratitude strangely," she said. "Spurning our care and making sport of those who keep you safe." There was something different in her voice now. He tried to look up, but his captors' fingers dug into his neck ruthlessly.

  "That was never my intention, majesty." It was of course what he had done, and intended. He could almost hear his brother sigh at such a display of idiocy. But no harm had been done. Shamet had not seemed angry or upset. He thought the chancellor had been amused and in good humor during their ride back to the palace. It did not seem the moment to say so.

  Micia was clearly not amused, unless this was some sort of game, a cat playing with a mouse. "I should have you whipped for insolence," she said. No game then.

  The threat made him angry. He was of royal blood, and she denied him the slightest shred of honor. For a moment, he resisted the pitiless grip, but he was held too well. There was a shuffle of feet and he realized the room was full of Athari. He submitted and the brutal fingers pressed his head lower until his brow touched the floor, his arms dragged painfully back. The silence was tense with menace, broken only by the sound of his harsh breathing. A dangerous spark of anger still burned in his gut. He took a calming breath.

  What would Charles do?

  The idea of his brother in this position brought an insane urge to laugh.

  "This is not Valderon, Sieur Edouard," said Micia softly. "If you will disrespect our hospitality we must believe you could show such disrespect to others. Perhaps King Ferdinand has good reason for his displeasure. We have resisted his demands and offered you protection. Perhaps the accusations he makes against you are true and we were wrong to shelter you from his justice."

  "I am not a traitor." He snarled the words. The accusation cut too close and he could not hide his anger. What did she expect? This had never been a game for him. The pressure on his arms increased but he would not be silenced. "The accusations are false. I did not betray the army to defeat at Ralmadre."

  He heard the soft fall of her feet, the swish of her robes; she paused and he sensed rather than saw when the gesture was made. The pressure on his arms and neck increased. He bit his lip and kept silent, despite the cost.

  "And the other crimes you are accused of. You are innocent of these too?" Her jeweled slipper tapped impatiently, and his heart thudded in counterpoint.

  Shamet's voice filled his head: words of caution. Edouard took a breath. The pressure on his limbs was so great that any movement threatened to break bones, slip joints from their sockets. The anger remained, but his father's warnings, his brother's advice, and Shamet's hints, begged caution, soft words. Perhaps there were battles that must be won with words. A phrase from one of the books Shamet had given him came to mind. "I have never knowingly or willingly done harm to my king or country."

  She did not answer. He sensed she had moved away from him and was watching, but he could not picture where in the room she stood. The silence stretched, taut as a wire noose. The pain in his arms numbed to a dull ache. When they released him, his arms would be useless and painful, until the feeling returned he would not be able to defend himself. He took a shallow breath; saints knew what they would do to him if he puked on Micia's jeweled slippers. The thought brought another insane urge to laugh.

  "You are not afraid?" She was closer than he had thought. Her voice was softer yet, and more dangerous.

  "I rely on your wisdom and mercy to protect me, majesty. If I have offended in ignorance, let me make amends."

  She came to stand in front of him and the pressure on his arms and neck changed. Her finger touched his chin, raising his head, a gentle touch, but an agonizing stretch for abused muscles. Now he had no choice but to look at her. A veil covered her face, above it, her eyes were dark and mesmerizing beneath fine, arched brows. The veil was sheer enough to offer a hint of her beauty. Beautiful and cruel, like Mariette. The thought stole breath and thought for a moment.

  Micia was watching him. He tried to force Mariette from his head, but by some alchemy, after one thought, he could not escape the memory of her. Micia released his chin, abruptly.

  "You will make amends," she said. Her voice had changed as if she was hiding some emotion he could not identify. "We require you to fight in the coliseum, a public match against our Athari whom you have insulted."

  He noticed she said Athari and wondered how many of her men he must fight. He was not stupid; clearly it was to be a contest he could not win. A fitting revenge he supposed. "It will be an honor to fight such worthy opponents, majesty." The grip on his arms tightened fractionally at the veiled insult. They held him now by right of numbers, and he guessed they would have their victory by the same means. He would not hide his contempt.

  Micia's tone promised vengeance, but there was something other than anger now. "In the meantime you will train each day with the gladiators."

  "Thank you, majesty." This was closer to reward than punishment. He wondered if she realized. He had no way of knowing. The veil hid her expression, and she used her voice as a weapon. Her men still held him, kneeling, like a slave, beneath her regard.

  "We have had word from your uncle." She allowed him the briefest moment to catch up. "He is sending an embassy to present the charges made against you. He assures us that they will offer evidence to convince us of your guilt. You understand what must happen if they are successful?"

  "Of course, majesty." He had no other answer, and she held all the weapons. All he could do was hold her gaze and meet this final attack as best he could.

  She turned away from him without another word or glance. He watched her go, mesmerized. His captors did not let him up from his knees until the sound of her footsteps had faded. He stood, slowly, and found himself facing the captain of her Athari. The man had dark hair, cut short, a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. A diamond glittered in his ear. His stare was full of contempt. Edouard met and held his gaze, and smiled with his own measure of contempt.

  The captain made an ironic bow. "We will meet in the coliseum," he said.

  Edouard did not hesitate. "Be sure to bring your friends."

  He thought the captain might strike him and could not have defended himself if he had chosen to, but after a moment, the man smiled. "Perhaps we will meet sooner," he said. Edouard could not tell if it was meant as threat or invitation.

  It was strangely quiet when the last of the Athari left. He went to the baths, forcing himself to walk easily. Julius was waiting for him, pale faced and trembling. The older man came forward quickly and bowed.

  "The bath is ready. How may I assist, my lord?"

  Edouard waved away his help. With the man watching, he refused to flinch or show pain as he undressed, however much the abused muscles of his arms and shoulders complained. There was one thing he must know.

  "Where are Ti and Markus?" he asked softly.

  A silence developed as Julius gathered fallen clothes. "They have been given other duties, my lord."

  "What duties?" He thought of the mines, the stories he had heard about the way the slaves were worked.

  "I do not know, my lord." A moment's hesitation. As if the other man were afraid to speak. "But they remain in the palace. They have not been sent away. They are in no danger." Julius hesitated.

  Edouard glanced to the older man and saw that it had taken some courage for him to speak. It was not fair to blame him. "Thank you. They had no part in my leaving the palace. I would not want any harm to come to them," he said.

  For a moment Julius smoothed sweat stained clothes and did not look at him. "If they had, it would have
gone very badly for them." He did not say how their guilt would have been decided. "It is perhaps for the best that they have new duties. Shall I send for the masseur?"

  Edouard nodded and watched the man leave. Grateful for the privacy, he limped across the room, wincing as he eased into the bath. Closing his eyes, he slid beneath the water and surfaced, resting his head against marble tiles as he replayed Micia's visit. If it was meant as a lesson, it had served her purpose. But was she truly so angry? Water lapped at his chin. And how should he take the news of Ferdinand's embassy, as warning or threat.

  He slid beneath the water, holding his breath until his lungs ached. Bursting the surface and sending a tidal wave across the tiles, he climbed out of the bath. The luxury of Allesarion was beguiling, but these endless games made him long for the simplicity of the sword and battlefield. Though in truth it was the lack of simplicity that had brought him here.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to think of Mariette. She would know by now of the accusations made against him. He did not think she would believe him a traitor and coward. Surely she knew him better.

  Chapter 89

  Mariette let her gaze rest on the cards fanned in her hand. The babble of the court surrounded her. She closed her eyes for a moment. The interest in the cards was a pretense, her attention was elsewhere.

  She took care not to let her eyes stray to him too often. It was difficult to conceal anything when she was the focus of so many avid stares. Her return to court had attracted attention. It was hardly a surprise. Good sense suggested she stay buried at Montmercy while her lover's treachery, and her own, dominated the court. That she was judged for betraying Edouard was a fine irony, and one only the court could sustain.

  Before her visits to Chamfort and The Swan Inn, it had been her intention to return to Montmercy and remain there. Instead, she was at court, losing at cards while she watched Roslaire de Lyon and worked out how to get him to help her.