by Tim Stretton
Beauceron handed her a goblet and inclined his head. ‘I will not magnify my offence by specious denials. I have subordinated a great deal to achieve my goals, and that has included your own convenience. But I may say that dancing here with you now, feeling the warmth of your person in my arms, my indifference seems inexplicable, and I heartily repent of it.’
Cosetta bit her lip against a laugh. ‘You kidnap me, subject me to every privation, give me away; and then you act as if nothing had happened and, if I am not mistaken, attempt to seduce me. You have a short memory.’
Beauceron shrugged and sipped his own drink. ‘Whatever my faults, a short memory is not one of them. I forget nothing, and remember old slights as if they were yesterday. As to seduction, such matters take two, and for now I merely attempt to secure your good opinion.’
Now Cosetta laughed openly. ‘You have some way to go. I may allow you to visit me in due course, but only because I admire your complete shamelessness. Listen, here is the Bocarillo and I must secure a new partner.’
Beauceron stood to hand her from her seat and turned away as she engaged another young man’s attention. He moved away with a smile, looking around for Lady Letteria. His attention distracted, he bumped into the man beside him.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘I shall not,’ said the man. ‘Do you not recognize me?’
Beauceron constrained his attention to the thin resentful countenance before him. ‘Albizzo.’
‘Just so, and your offences exceed a moment of clumsiness. We must discuss my sister.’
Beauceron frowned. ‘How is Etheria?’ he asked in a flat voice. He lifted his goblet from the table.
‘Well might you ask, sir,’ said Albizzo with an expression simultaneously sneering and self-pitying. ‘You might have displayed similar concern for her welfare before you debauched her.’
Albizzo’s voice was shrill, and heads turned to look at them. ‘Albizzo, you only demean yourself ranting before the King.’
‘I demand satisfaction of you, sir. You must apologize – as you observe, before the King – or face my wrath.’
‘Your wrath?’ Beauceron raised an eyebrow.
‘Do not provoke me. Our family has held land in this city for generations. Etheria could have hoped for a good marriage before you defiled her.’ Spots of colour stood out on Albizzo’s cheeks.
‘Must you transact your business in this way? I did not force your sister; she was, in fact, all too willing. If your family commands the respect you suggest, I cannot imagine her marriage prospects materially blighted.’
‘Dog! Who would want a woman with a character compromised by a natural child?’
Beauceron set his goblet down. ‘A child?’
‘Yes, sir. You left her with a bastard and not a thought for her welfare. It is late now to affect concern.’
‘You mistake me, Albizzo. I care nothing for Etheria and less for her brat. She assured me with some babble of phases of the moon that the event you describe could not occur; more, it seems, to comfort herself than me, for I was indifferent throughout.’
‘You are despicable. I can tell you now the child did not survive his birth one hour; and I intend that you should meet your son within the same period. You will fight me now, and may you find Harmony.’
‘Do not be a fool, Albizzo. If you declare a duel to the death, be sure you are prepared for the outcome. Let us leave the matter aside.’
‘Not just a seducer but a coward too? I should have known that the boasts of the Dog of the North were hollow. I am glad the King has seen you for what you are.’ He turned away.
‘Enough, Albizzo. If you challenge me, I must respond. That is why I give you a chance to withdraw.’
Albizzo stepped so close that their noses almost touched. Beauceron could see that he was in trim condition, and his eyes glittered with a manic intensity.
‘Then I challenge you, Beauceron. We will fight this very night with the weapon of your choosing: the rapier, the broadsword, the knife, or hands. And it shall be to the death.’
Beauceron shrugged. ‘As you wish. I choose the rapier. If this is how you wish to achieve Harmony, I am on hand to help you.’
Fanrolio rose from his seat. ‘Come now, gentlemen, can you not be reconciled?’ he said in a wavering voice.
Albizzo and Beauceron turned to the King and bent the knee. ‘Your Puissance,’ said Albizzo, ‘if you command it, I shall of course withdraw my challenge, but the insult to my sister remains grave. I beg you will not command me to forswear my honour.’
Fanrolio turned to Beauceron with rheumy eye. ‘Beauceron, your conduct does not appear beyond reproach.’
‘Your Puissance, events happened as they did. It is futile to wish them otherwise. The good Albizzo has impugned my honour and my courage before this august group. If he challenges me I must respond.’
Fanrolio thought for a moment. Davanzato whispered in his ear.
‘Very well,’ said Fanrolio. ‘Albizzo is within his rights to demand satisfaction, and I will not tarnish his honour by demanding he withdraws his challenge. You may fight, but outside. It is forbidden to draw steel in my presence.’ He beckoned to a liveried attendant. ‘Bring their arms and escort them to the courtyard. Name your seconds.’
Albizzo smiled. ‘I call on Massaio.’ From the side of the room a trim man in a bright green cloak stepped forward, making a bow. ‘I am honoured, friend.’
Beauceron had no obvious second to hand. Monetto was the usual choice but Beauceron was not sure where he was spending the evening. With a faint smile, he said: ‘I call on General Virnesto.’
Virnesto stepped forward. He was beginning to thicken around the middle, and his hair was now more grey than black, but he radiated martial competence.
‘Really, Beauceron,’ said Virnesto. ‘We are hardly so intimate that I am your natural second.’
Beauceron bowed. ‘You are my comrade in arms: did we not range Jehan’s Steppe together? By custom you may not refuse me.’
Virnesto shook his head and scowled. ‘Indeed I may not, but I am vexed to leave the warmth of the dimonetto on such a night. It is an inconvenience.’
‘Albizzo will soon be facing the inconvenience of death. Your own vexation is minor in the context.’
‘Very well,’ said Virnesto. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.’
The attendant had brought the rapiers out, and the combatants belted them on and strode from the hall.
In the courtyard the moon was full. The ground had a thin skimming of ice, and Beauceron’s breath misted as he exhaled. He took off his cloak and waistcoat; Albizzo did the same. They bowed to each other, and went to stand ten paces apart. It was too late for apologies now.
‘Fight!’ called Massaio.
They circled cautiously, blades outstretched. Beauceron was concerned about the slippery footing: he was confident he was the better swordsman, but he needed to be on his feet to show it. Albizzo had planned the event, and no doubt had been training extensively.
Beauceron stepped briskly forward, feinted and lunged. Albizzo swayed to the side, parried effortlessly and counterattacked. Even as Beauceron slipped he noted that Albizzo was moving with a sure-footed certainty. His planning had obviously extended to his footwear: his ribbed soles would give him an advantage over Beauceron’s everyday boots.
Beauceron recovered his slip and pushed Albizzo’s blade aside. The trick with the shoes was not strictly honourable, but he could not call for a halt in mid-duel. He stepped carefully into the offensive. Head and feet, he thought. All swordplay began with the head and feet. As Albizzo parried him he slid to the side, with the centre of the courtyard to his back; Albizzo’s back was now facing the wall and Beauceron aimed to force him back. But Albizzo came skipping forward, launching an assault studded with feints and lunges. This was crisp swordplay, the result of extensive practice and a good master. Beauceron parried a lunge an inch from his throat: he was getting slack. Albizzo might be a
duellist but he was no soldier: Beauceron kicked out to gain a moment’s respite. Albizzo was ready for the move, feinted right and lunged left. Beauceron jerked aside but he felt a sting in his ribs: Albizzo had bloodied him.
Beauceron looked up and caught Albizzo’s eye. It gleamed with a crazed intensity, but the passion was suppressed in the swordplay. There was none of the carelessness of the fanatic in his work.
In the moonlight and the glimmer of the torches the blood on Beauceron’s shirt looked black. It could only encourage Albizzo, although Beauceron judged the wound superficial.
Albizzo lunged again, this time disdaining a feint. He was keen to finish the fight. Beauceron stumbled aside and let out a groan. Let him think I am sorely hurt. He gave ground in the face of Albizzo’s assault. As Albizzo chased him, Beauceron let his foot slide from under him on the ice. He lay on his side in the dirt and Albizzo leaped forward for the kill.
But as he made his killing stroke, Beauceron continued his roll on the ground, using his momentum to push him upright. Albizzo overstretched in following the movement, and Beauceron twisted to catch him under the ribcage. Albizzo staggered back in astonishment, blood pumping from his chest. Beauceron stood watching in disappointment. He had hoped to spit Albizzo’s heart directly.
Albizzo composed himself with an effort. He wrenched his sword into a defensive position. Then he swayed. ‘No,’ he said thickly. ‘Is this Harmony?’ He fell forward to the ground, his blade slipping from his hand and clattering to the cobbles.
Beauceron stood some distance away, watching the pool of blood mingle with the ice melting from the heat of Albizzo’s body. He had seen death before; and he saw it now. Massaio stepped forward, knelt, and turned Albizzo over, looked into his eyes and felt his pulse. He shook his head.
‘Beauceron is the winner. His honour is vindicated,’ said Virnesto.
Massaio stood up. ‘You killed a better man than yourself today.’
Beauceron said nothing. He felt nothing but weariness. He sheathed his rapier and walked over to Albizzo’s body. After inspecting the corpse’s feet, he pulled one of Albizzo’s boots off. He banged it against the ground; slush fell from the treads. He laid the boot sideways on Albizzo’s chest so that everyone could see the ridged sole.
‘Take your better man and bury him,’ he said to Massaio. He turned and walked out of the courtyard with the moon at his back.
2
Beauceron allowed himself the luxury of a lie-in the next morning. An apothecary had applied a poultice to his wound and he felt disinclined for exertion. He rose stiffly from his bed and opened the shutters. The aquavias glowered with winter darkness and there were a few flakes of snow settling on the paths. The wind insinuated itself around the casement and he wrapped his cloak around his thin shirt. Against the chill he thought of the Summer King.
He had been tempted several times to take his proposals to Tardolio. The Summer King lacked Fanrolio’s timidity and might be thought more favourable to the idea of an assault on Croad. But ever since Beauceron had come into Mettingloom he had been Fanrolio’s man: his contacts and influence were all in the court of the Winter King. Tardolio must be suspicious of any overture from one of Fanrolio’s captains, and Fanrolio would have him killed at the slightest suspicion that Beauceron was courting the Sun – and Davanzato’s intelligencers would find out soon enough. For all its superficial appeal, the idea was impractical.
From downstairs he heard the tinkle of the guest bell, and then the heavy tread of Kainera on the stairs. ‘Lady Isola requests the pleasure of your company, sir.’
Beauceron raised his eyebrows. He did not remember having a visiting relationship with her. Perhaps she meant to stab him, or worse, to upbraid him again.
‘Send her in, Kainera. And see if you can get some more heat from the fire.’
Kainera poked ineffectually at the hearth before disappearing downstairs. Beauceron reached for breeches, boots and a jacket. He heard a much lighter tread on the stairs and then Lady Isola stood before him.
‘My lady,’ he said, still pulling a boot on. ‘I am honoured by your attention, and charmed by your loveliness.’
Davanzato had certainly ensured she would dress as a lady during her stay in the North. Her cloak of deep red covered an exquisite aquamarine silk dress decorated with the battlecat emblem of Sey. The winter air had brought a flush to her cheeks and her dark eyes shone from the exertion. Beauceron also noticed that she did not have a knife obviously about her person. Was this indeed simply a social call?
Isola merely returned an arch look. ‘Cosetta said that you flirted with her. Your brazenness is almost admirable.’
‘All experience is valuable, my lady. “While we live, we learn.” Please, be comfortable. This was once your home, if only for a night.’
Isola sat on the couch with schooled precision. ‘I came to assess your health. I understand you took a wound last night.’
‘A scratch,’ said Beauceron with a smirk. ‘Albizzo, inevitably, was more seriously dealt with. I am gratified – if puzzled – by your solicitude.’
Kainera appeared with hot drinks and Isola sipped calmly at her steaming cup.
‘My betrothed has promised to hang you in the market square at Croad,’ she said. ‘I would hate for circumstances to deny him the opportunity.’
‘I am comforted to know that your concern has a rational basis,’ said Beauceron. ‘I am able to present both good and bad tidings. The good news is that I plan to stand, after a long absence, in the centre of Croad. Hissen willing, the day is not too far distant. The worse news, certainly for Lord Oricien, is that I do not plan to put my neck in his noose; although he is welcome to try.’
Isola sat and drank her tea for a while. ‘Davanzato says that you harbour an insane resentment against Croad, and think only of its humiliation. Since I am to marry its ruler, I am curious as to your motives.’
‘I warned you that Davanzato is untrustworthy,’ he said. ‘He is not a casual gossip, and if he imparts information it is for the purposes of influencing your opinion. It is no secret that I have advised the Winter King to assault Croad, but I am not the first captain to have had the idea. Lord Oricien’s father had to deal with a similar invasion.’
‘But Davanzato says there is something personal, deep within you, that impels you to such desires. You show no interest in taking Jeis or Slent.’
‘Neither city is readily accessible from Mettingloom. Only a buffoon would attempt such an assault.’
‘So you do mean to attack Croad? Are you mad?’
‘On the contrary. Croad may be walled but Oricien can rely on little help from Emmen or Glount. King Enguerran is a belligerent young man, and his Immaculates are unmatched for valour, but he is more concerned with the South than the North. He thinks to wrest Vasi Vasar from King Ingomer. Croad might as well not exist for him.’
‘Why then has Croad not fallen to the North before?’
Beauceron drained his tea with a flourish. ‘Allow me some secrets,’ he said. ‘Soon you will return to Croad and report this conversation to Oricien. So far he learns only that factions within Mettingloom wish to attack Croad – hardly news. But were I to list the weaknesses of his defences I would only allow him to regroup.’
‘I am no closer to understanding your motives.’
‘It is not my intention that you should,’ he said, rising from his seat. ‘I must pay a number of calls, including Davanzato. May I escort you to the Occonero?’
Isola rose as well; Beauceron passed her cloak and for an instant their hands brushed and Isola coloured. ‘That would be kind. Davanzato has allowed me no money for the wherry.’
Thirty minutes later they arrived at Davanzato’s offices. The Under-Chamberlain was disengaged and they were ushered in to the parlour. Davanzato rose from his seat. ‘My lady! Beauceron! I am charmed to see you both, especially on such cordial terms.’
‘Lady Isola is adamant that I should remain safe from harm until such time as
Oricien should capture and hang me. I find her candour refreshing.’
Isola removed her cloak and sat down. Davanzato said: ‘A degree of resentment is understandable in the circumstances.’
‘Your generous spirit does you credit, Davanzato,’ said Beauceron. ‘The viators would give praise at your approach to Harmony. Imagine their delight were you to show your sympathy in a more concrete way – for instance, by waiving your commission and thereby reducing the ransoms the ladies’ sponsors must pay.’
Davanzato looked sourly at Beauceron. ‘I cannot imagine that Lady Isola is deceived by your sophistry into believing that anyone other than yourself is responsible for her predicament.’
Beauceron shrugged. ‘It was never my intention to do so. We must all take the consequences of our actions – or indeed, inactions.’
‘Inactions?’
‘I had no specific examples in mind. I merely spoke in a general sense. While I am here, perhaps I might arrange a time for my audience with His Puissance.’
Davanzato shot Isola a sideways glance, his brown eyes flashing. ‘You imagine that I have no other duties but to see to your convenience.’
‘On my return to Mettingloom I offered you proofs of my regard for your person. It is common for folk of friendly feelings to do each other a good turn.’
‘Your observations are boorish in the extreme. It is impolite to refer to your cordial feelings in this crass commercial manner, and even more so when one of the “proofs of your regard” sits beside you.’
‘I cannot imagine how you arrived at the conclusion that I had “given” you Lady Isola, a woman of dignity and worth. She was not my property to give you. You will remember that I petitioned the King to collect her ransom, and out of friendship offered you the chance to secure the agent’s fee. My gift, if it can be so described, was the commission, rather than Lady Isola herself.’
Isola stood up. ‘I am not some chattel that you can bargain among yourselves for petty advantage. I am a lady of Sey and I expect to be treated as such. You are both as bad as each other, except that Beauceron is somewhat worse.’
