‘I serve Asham Ivani Reyes,’ Laerte defended himself coldly.
His hands were damp, his body rigid, but his heart was racing madly.
‘I’m fighting the rebellion,’ he added.
‘Your count was loved, as I understand it.’
Laerte measured the weight of his reply before his voice cracked like a whip.
‘He was a traitor.’
The echo of the trapdoor opening beneath his father’s feet shot through his mind. He kept his head held high, staring at de Page intently. No matter what it cost him, he would not betray himself.
‘I serve the Empire and I will defend it to the death.’
He saw them again in his mind’s eye, his father and his brother, dangling at the end of a rope. He felt the all-consuming fear he’d endured during his flight into the marshes, with Azdeki’s shadow poised to pounce on him.
The duke raised his eyebrows.
‘Is that you speaking, or General Dun-Cadal Daermon? I sense no passion in your voice.’
With a nod of his head he indicated the door.
‘Rhunstag. Not even the great and mighty Rhunstag makes that kind of propaganda speech,’ he said calmly. ‘Only your mentor is so wilfully blind and, on his own, he will not save Reyes.’
Laerte remained silent. Out of the corner of his eye he looked for any clue on Rogant’s face, a smile or a glance that would indicate what was expected of him here. But he saw nothing but motionless tattoos, closed lips and black eyes which watched his slightest gesture.
‘Everyone is waiting for the outcome of this revolt. Particularly those enjoying a spanking this evening . . . who will be wearing stern, dignified expressions tomorrow,’ de Page continued. ‘They have this tremendous capacity to adapt, it’s really astonishing. Funny, even. But one mustn’t let them see that, they would think it was mockery.’
Was he trying to make Laerte reveal his identity? Or was the duke alluding, in his own way, to where his own loyalties lay . . . Laerte tried to withstand his gaze, but a growing turmoil assailed him. What should he do? How should he reply? And what was Rogant expecting of him? Wasn’t he Laerte’s friend?
‘Which is the case, quite obviously,’ admitted de Page, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Anyway . . .’
He pretended to drink again and then licked his lips.
‘It matters very little how much effort you put into defending what you believe in, Frog. You’re just a small stone on a riverbed, and as far as I know one stone will never make the river change its course. Isn’t that the case?’
Laerte glanced briefly at Rogant. Wasn’t he going to intervene? Just one sign from him, one look other than the one he’d worn on his face since the beginning of the interview, one word, would make Laerte feel a little less like cornered prey.
‘I hope you’ll make the right choice when the rebellion reaches Emeris,’ de Page said, sounding sincere. ‘For you are – or you will be, I should say – a great knight. Rogant has spoken extremely highly of you. And the events at Kapernevic have only reinforced my opinion. That is precisely what I wished to discuss with you.’
The goblet . . . the goblet on the armrest was now empty. Its contents had somehow disappeared in the short instant when he had glanced over at Rogant. Where did it go? Had de Page finished it in one gulp? No . . . no, of course not. Since the beginning, he’d only pretended to drink and been quite obvious about it.
His drunkenness was a manner of disguise, it was all merely illusion. As in the neighbouring room, de Page had resorted to trickery. Laerte may not have drunk a single drop, but that was the not the case with the duke’s guests next door. Tongues loosened and de Page listened.
Laerte glanced again towards the Nâaga, and this time Rogant nodded with the shadow of a smile.
‘Kapernevic . . . ?’ murmured Laerte, suddenly interested.
‘Aladzio . . . he worked for my father. Did you know that?’
Laerte didn’t have a moment to reply.
‘Yes, of course you knew,’ acknowledged de Page with a nod. ‘My father ceded his contract to another family and, for the transfer to be concluded, it was important that he return here alive. I am indebted to you for protecting him . . . he is of great value to me.’
There was no trace of irony or even scorn in his tone.
‘Great value . . .’ he said again in a low voice. ‘Although I say, wherever I go, day or night, that the man is an idiot. It’s now public knowledge that I’m very glad to be rid of him.’
‘Is that right?’ Laerte asked tersely.
‘And what do you think about that?’ de Page smiled quickly.
In the big room next door the festivities seemed to be gathering speed, the music and the cries, the laughter and applause. Like heartbeats, repeating without any pause.
‘What I think is of no importance.’
‘On the contrary,’ retorted de Page as he leaned forward.
He placed his elbows on his knees, joining his hands together. His smile had disappeared.
‘If they come to my parties,’ he said, darting a glance at the door, ‘it’s because they’re sure no one will see anything of them but their mask. Indeed, it’s probably the only thing, right now, they’re still wearing. There is nothing more important than this . . . Frog. Aladzio is, and to me shall remain, an idiot. Who but a half-wit would leave work like this behind?’
He looked over at Rogant and, without saying a word, the Nâaga disappeared behind the red curtains. He came back with a large rolled-up bundle of plans in his hand.
‘I don’t believe these plans could be of any use to anyone,’ de Page said as Rogant placed the roll upon the divan. ‘They’re just hideous drawings.’
Laerte started to unroll the parchments with his fingertips, revealing an assortment of sketches. They represented an odd elongated structure, accompanied by some hastily scribbled notes.
‘And then there was this . . . powder substance he was always blathering on about before my father sent him to Kapernevic,’ recalled de Page, his mouth twisting into a scornful scowl. ‘He was certain he had discovered a powder capable of propelling projectiles through this . . . this thing.’
He indicated the plans with a jerk of his chin.
‘To me, these are nothing but stupid drawings,’ continued the duke, rolling his eyes. ‘But he claimed it was a weapon capable of putting an end to this war, and—’
He halted for an instant, pensive, and then frowning, he placed his index finger on his lips.
‘Anyways, you can understand how ridiculous all this seemed to me. Cannons that would make our catapults obsolete? It’s . . . absurd. Because leaving plans for an invention like this behind, risking them falling into the wrong hands, is the ultimate proof of his stupidity . . .’
The duke stood up and slowly walked over to Rogant with a stately demeanour. The Nâaga did not move an inch when he approached.
‘Take these scrawlings back to Aladzio and let me hear no more about them.’
‘Wait . . .’ Laerte called.
With a brusque movement the duke turned back to him.
‘Why . . . ?’ asked the apprentice knight, looking down at the perfect sketches of the cannon. ‘Why insist that these documents are of no value to you?’
‘That isn’t the question you want to ask, Frog.’
Laerte saw him pat the Nâaga’s shoulder with a firm hand before picking up his mask and walking slowly towards the curtains at the rear. In the neighbouring room the party had reached its climax, but the noise was nothing compared to the tumult of the young man’s thoughts. He knew Rogant well enough to be open with him, at least to a degree. And the reverse was also true. Rogant had high hopes and had never hidden the fact that he saw the fall of the Empire as the only way his people could reclaim their freedom.
Although Laerte had complete confidence in his friend, he needed to believe he had correctly understood the underlying implications of this conversation. And as if to prove it to him, de Page added wit
hout turning round:
‘The real question is: have you seen the man behind the mask . . . or simply the mask? Make the choice that seems wisest to you. About me, and about these plans and their use.’
He put his mask back on, conscientiously, before drawing apart the curtains. Laerte stood up, wondering whether he should question the man further, tempted by the idea that he’d found a powerful ally here. Cannons? More powerful and more destructive than catapults? Aladzio’s work could end up in the hands of the rebels and give them a way to enter Emeris.
‘There was one other thing . . .’ the duke said in a grim voice. ‘It seems you are acquainted with some of the Saltmarsh refugees. Unfortunately, one of them was found guilty of treason and hung this morning. But you serve the Empire, so you probably didn’t know the man. He was the blacksmith at Aëd’s Watch. The traitor should have spared a thought for the daughter he has left an orphan. I hope she will find a comforting shoulder . . .’
He passed through the curtains.
Laerte thought his legs were going to collapse beneath him. He had not been able see Esyld again since his return the previous evening, and this was how he learned of her father’s death, from the mouth of a perfect stranger. He did not recall ever coming across Master Orbey in the palace hallways during his previous short stays here. The last time they spoke they’d been in the Saltmarsh, just before Laerte had been forced to flee. Just before he’d met Dun-Cadal Daermon. Just before he had changed lives.
Esyld had often spoken of him, however, explaining the dangerous role he was playing here. All these years Laerte had spent wandering around battlefields, the blacksmith had been here working behind the scenes, organising the resistance among the Saltmarsh refugees. Until the nobles who were hostile to the Emperor had approached him. He had done everything he could to be sure of their good faith, while staying in the shadows. And among these noblemen, so prompt to join the rebellion, was the duke . . .
‘This war is coming to an end, Frog,’ said Rogant, staring at him intently. ‘Trust me on this. There’s what de Page says, what is necessary for others to hear, and what he is. The inventor you saved . . . he’s going to train soldiers in the academy to use the cannon, if he manages to build one that works . . . Speak to him. That’s my advice as a friend.’
There was a long silence. Rogant finally bowed his head slightly before turning round.
‘I’m sorry for her,’ he said before leaving the small room in his turn. ‘She will need you now.’
Alone for a moment, Laerte struggled to hold back his tears. His eyes damp, he stared at the plans spread out across the red divan. It only took him a moment to gather them up.
He travelled through the palace hallways as discreetly as possible, keeping to the walls, skirting behind the marble pillars, avoiding indiscreet gazes. He hurried to the servants’ quarters and finally reached the familiar small door.
When he entered Esyld’s chamber he found her huddled up at the foot of the bed, her curls falling over her face along with the tears. She let out a little sob when she saw Laerte kneeling in front of her and she fell into his arms, clinging to him.
They remained like that for a long while, saying nothing, without even looking at one another. When she finally caught her breath she told him of her father’s arrest and how close she had come to being hung, too. She owed her survival to a nobleman whose name she did not mention, who claimed to have taken her into his service and protested at the prospect of losing her to the executioner. Laerte did not press her for more details. He had a good idea of the man’s identity. He was certain he had just met him.
When she had told him, in detail, how her father had lost his life, her voice quivering in pain, he hesitated for several minutes before speaking.
‘He will not have died in vain, Esyld,’ he murmured finally, his mind made up.
He unrolled the plans at their feet and crouched on the other side.
‘What are these?’
‘Something that will bring the Empire to its knees,’ he promised her in a low voice. ‘We need to get these plans to Meurnau as quickly as possible.’
Thanks to Orbey’s network, Esyld knew of Saltmarsh refugees who had become couriers for some of capital’s merchants. And that was how the parchments left Emeris; passed from hand to hand, until they finally reached the closest rebel camp.
Strangely, and without his fully understanding why, Esyld barely spoke to him over the following month. She avoided him as much as possible. He accepted, not without some difficulty, that she might blame him. Orbey was dead; while he had been fighting against their own rebellion for years. Worse still, he refused to take on his true identity and had always rejected the idea of joining Meurnau and his troops. He was hurt that she did not approve his choices. And his own guilt did not help matters.
During his last month at Emeris, his time had thus been divided between classes at the academy, enduring Dun-Cadal’s authoritarian tirades, and conversations with Rogant and Aladzio, who he was getting to know better. And even coming to like. But this period of waiting did not last long. The rumblings of the rebellion had finally reached the Imperial city’s gates. As de Page had warned him, the war was drawing to a close. He was finally ready to confront the Emperor and his Hand without trembling. Hadn’t he mastered a great red dragon? Asham Ivani Reyes was just a man and the task would be less arduous. He was sure of it.
‘Tomorrow . . .’ said Esyld.
The sunlight made the white stone walkway glow. A braid slid over her bare shoulder, delicately caressed by a beam of sunlight. Her hands joined before her carmine red dress, she conserved her full beauty despite her drawn face. Frog desperately sought to catch her gaze, but his efforts were fruitless. Distracted, she looked at the palace gardens which descended like the steps of a flowering staircase.
‘I thought they were merely rumours,’ he confessed quietly. ‘Emeris seems so calm . . .’
‘Meurnau and his troops are well and truly near the city,’ she assured him sharply.
‘Esyld . . .’
‘They’ve built your friend’s cannons and they’ll be able to enter the city without any problems. But the Emperor remains and I know this is your moment to act. A nobleman who supports the cause will see me safely out the city. I trust him, but you, I . . .’
‘Esyld, look at me . . .’
She glanced briefly at him and then looked away.
‘I need more time, Laerte,’ she explained coldly. ‘I need time to forgive you, despite loving you.’
‘I did not want this—’
‘You know why I blame you,’ she interrupted.
Yes, of course . . . What part had he played in this rebellion? He’d fought against it instead of leading it.
‘I am an Erain frog,’ he protested in a murmur. ‘I will strike when the moment is right. And tomorrow will be the right moment, Esyld. I shall not falter, I promise.’
‘I believe you,’ she said without much conviction. ‘But what about Dun-Cadal?’
She finally met his gaze and her expression gradually softened. He was ready to embrace her, to kiss her until his heart burst. He desired her so much he was ready to give up his life for her.
‘What about him?’
‘When the moment comes, will you kill him?’
Kill his mentor? His enemy . . . Dun-Cadal Daermon would rather die than let the Empire collapse; that was certain. The very idea that he might stand between Laerte and the Emperor chilled the young man’s blood. Would Frog take precedence over Laerte? Although he had tried many times to deny it, he felt affection for the man. Would he be able to put that aside in order to take his vengeance?
‘I’ll do whatever’s necessary,’ he muttered, his gaze drifting over the white flagstones. ‘I’m ready. Trust me. I will succeed. I’ll bring down the Empire all on my own . . . and I’ll do it for you.’
‘Laerte—’
‘Frog!’ a voice bellowed.
He spun round, annoyed to see his
mentor’s massive silhouette bearing down on them. Esyld’s soft hand, placed upon his shoulder, had the effect of a caress. When she rose on tiptoe to whisper a few words in his ear he longed to flee with her, far from here, from this war, from this violence . . . and forget everything.
‘Never forget this. . . I will always love you . . . Be careful, tomorrow.’
He watched her move off down the walkway in the golden sunlight. Shadows slid over the perfect curves of her body until she reached the door to the tower. When she disappeared inside the palace he felt Dun-Cadal’s oppressive presence at his back.
‘I’ve been hunting you for hours,’ he said in a harsh voice.
‘You used to be more effective than that,’ Laerte replied, masking his nervousness as best he could.
He was staring at the end of the walkway, as if Esyld were still there.
‘Whenever you’re not busy with Aladzio, then she occupies your time,’ Dun-Cadal sighed. ‘You know what I think about that.’
‘I’ve been training with the other cadets, Wader,’ Laerte assured him.
‘And what if we’re sent back to the front tomorrow? You shouldn’t be training with the cadets. You’re a knight now, you blockhead!’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Laerte said irritably.
He finally turned around to face the general. Dun-Cadal’s weathered face did not inspire sympathy. His clear eyes shone with a cold, severe fire. Laerte advanced to the walkway’s parapet, hoping to cut his mentor’s criticism short. It was not the first time Dun-Cadal had warned him against Esyld, claiming she was a distraction from his studies, causing him to lose focus . . . That she was a bad influence on his apprentice, was that his fear? This man wasn’t his father, he had no right to tell him who he could see or what he could do!
‘You seem to be spending enough of your time with Mildrel,’ he accused.
‘It’s not the same.’
‘And the Emperor doesn’t ask you to train all the time. Whereas I perform my exercises every morning. Even more often, since I was knighted. I have the right to see her.’
The Path of Anger Page 36
