by Tim Stretton
‘We have already met,’ said Isola. ‘I am surprised you have forgotten: it was the night you killed Albizzo.’
‘That was merely a soirée,’ said Beauceron. ‘This is a formal ball. You have not met the King until you are introduced at such an event.’
Isola gave a quick crooked smile. ‘When I was a girl,’ she said, ‘I always dreamed of being presented to the King, so in a sense my girlish fantasy is coming true.’
Beauceron looked at her.
‘The only difference,’ she continued with a twitch of her chin, ‘is that I imagined it would be the King of Emmen.’
Isola broke away to curtsy at the feet of King Fanrolio, for they had arrived at the throne. Beauceron dropped to one knee.
From behind the throne stepped Davanzato: Beauceron might have expected him to be on hand.
‘Your Puissance, you will remember Lady Isola, of the fair city of Sey in Emmen; and the gallant Beauceron, who is well-known to you.’
‘My lady, you are most welcome,’ said Fanrolio, his eyes watering in the warm room. ‘You are under my protection. I pray you will make the most of your opportunity to enjoy Mettingloom. I understand that Beauceron is providing you with sustenance.’
‘Yes, Your Puissance. He has been every inch the gentleman, if one ignores the circumstances under which we became acquainted.’
‘When you reach my age, my dear, you will realize that such forgetfulness can be the best policy. Beauceron, you have our gratitude for looking after our guest, and indeed for bringing her to our city.’
Beauceron bowed. ‘I had hoped at your convenience, Your Puissance, to discuss matters with regard to Emmen, going beyond the comfort of the young ladies.’
Fanrolio knitted his brows. ‘I am always happy to hear the thoughts of such a respected captain,’ he said. ‘See Davanzato and he will arrange an appointment.’
Davanzato’s eyes glittered as he looked at Beauceron. ‘I will arrange for it to happen as soon as practical, Your Puissance. There are many folk who press for your attention, and I must arrange them in the order that best suits your needs.’
‘Yes, just so, Davanzato. You intrude upon my attention less than Osvergario, and I am sure you will find the right time for my audience with Beauceron.’
‘Indeed I shall, Your Puissance,’ said Davanzato, with a pregnant glance at Beauceron. ‘Beauceron may be assured of an audience at exactly the appropriate moment.’
Beauceron’s heart sank low. ‘Surely a formal appointment is not necessary,’ he said in a jocular tone. ‘I might outline the essence of my business in two minutes.’
‘Really, Beauceron,’ said Davanzato. ‘Look behind you – there are many folk crowding to be presented to His Puissance: he is scarcely at liberty to gossip with you, however he might incline. Come now, step aside and present your compliments to Prince Brissio.’
Brissio inclined his head with a smile on his snub-nosed face. ‘My lady, Beauceron; good evening. I am happy to see you, Lady Isola.’
‘And I you, my lord.’
Brissio, his eyes bulging and dressed in a tight greenish-brown frock coat, resembled nothing so much as a giant toad.
‘Beauceron, these days I never see you away from the company of a beautiful woman. Tonight Lady Isola, the other day Lady Cosetta. It is unorthodox to secure such company by kidnap, but that is the way of the great captains, I suppose.’
‘I see no duress on Lady Isola’s face, my lord. We all have our methods of securing the approval of those we wish to please. I myself have offered Lady Isola the use of my house, such as it is. In this I was inspired by your own generosity in furnishing Lady Cosetta with apartments. I am surprised not to see her this evening.’
Brissio took a pull at his goblet. ‘My squire Thivalto escorts her; it would not be seemly for her to be seen on a prince’s arm at the Midsummer Ball; so says my royal father.’
Beauceron grinned. Evidently Fanrolio had put his foot down; he did not want his son and heir in public thrall to a foreign adventuress. Inwardly he raised his cup to Cosetta.
‘No doubt I shall see her during the course of the evening,’ said Beauceron. ‘I hope that you are equally fortunate.’
Brissio’s smile slipped a little. She does have you on a string, thought Beauceron.
From the back of the hall came the call of trumpets. It was the ‘Royalticar’, played at the approach of the King. Since Fanrolio was already present, it could only signal the arrival of the Summer King.
‘All hail to their Puissant Majesties, the Summer King of Mettingloom, the Northern Reach and Lynnoc, King Tardolio and his royal Queen Sassantia!’
The doors swung wide and Beauceron sensed as much as saw a column stretching way back across the courtyard. Tardolio had, it seemed, brought his entire court. A rush of cold air invested the hall.
Tardolio at this time was about forty-five years of age, carrying his height and increasing bulk with regal authority. His ultramarine robes were embroidered with sunbursts and his eyes glittered in the torchlight. Was this a man with the spirit to assault Croad? wondered Beauceron. As usual, he looked every inch the warrior king with his great sword hanging by his side.
Beauceron’s eyes moved to Queen Sassantia – once, he remembered, an ordinary lady of Garganet, thinking of Cosetta – and Prince Laertio and Princess Agalina. They were the embodiment of a royal family, tall and straight, superabundant with vigour. Beauceron thought of twisted King Fanrolio and his degenerate son, all that remained of the Winter House.
Tardolio advanced along the ceremonial rug. Kneeling before Fanrolio, he unbuckled his sword and laid it at the Winter King’s feet. Fanrolio descended from his throne and raised Tardolio to his feet, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Take back your sword, Your Puissance. For tonight there are two kings.’ Tardolio bowed and kissed Fanrolio’s hands. The ceremonial over, Tardolio repaired to the quarter of the room set aside for his use, including a throne set carefully at a lower level than Fanrolio’s.
‘Minstrels!’ called Fanrolio in what passed for a firm voice. ‘The night is young! Play!’
Beauceron turned to Isola. ‘Would you do me the honour, my lady?’
Isola half-smiled. ‘I should be delighted.’
As they performed a pavane, Beauceron turned his thoughts to Tardolio: the Summer King’s attitude would determine his plans to a great extent. He was conscious, though, of the warmth of Isola against him as they danced. She moved with a supple elegance, indeed hardly seeming to move at all. She was a most engaging partner, and he decided to set aside King Tardolio for a while; after all, as Fanrolio had said, the evening was young.
‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked when the first dance was over. ‘Perhaps I might fetch you a tuttleberry wine?’
‘You are attentive,’ said Isola with a smile. The exertion had brought a flush of colour to her cheek.
Beauceron took this for assent and made his way to a refreshment table. A man jostled his back, and he turned to see Sir Goccio.
‘My apologies, Captain,’ said Sir Goccio.
‘Think nothing of the matter, sir.’
‘I must press you for your answer on the question we discussed soon,’ said Sir Goccio. ‘The spring is nearer than you think. There are many preparations to make.’
‘In good time, Sir Goccio. I may assess His Puissance’s mood for myself tonight.’
Sir Goccio slopped a little wine from his goblet. ‘I would not advise that. Tardolio has no intent to discuss matters of state this evening, certainly not those which might be regarded as treasonous to his host.’
Beauceron gave him a sceptical glance. ‘What other purpose could Tardolio have for coming than intrigue?’
‘You are a cynical fellow. You can see all you need: look at Tardolio and his tall son Laertio; compare them with the Winter House. You would think Fanrolio old enough to be Tardolio’s father: in fact he is but seven years his senior.’
‘What you ask of me is not straightforward, Sir Goc
cio. Allow me to decide matters in my own way.’
‘Beauceron!’ called a voice from his left: Davanzato. ‘I did not realize that you and Sir Goccio were acquainted.’
Beauceron sprang back. ‘Only in the most casual sense. We became acquainted at Lady Cosetta’s salon.’
Davanzato nodded. ‘Naturally, it is easier for a foreigner to maintain links with both courts. My own acquaintance in the Summer Court is negligible.’
‘Do not overstate my familiarity with the Printempi,’ said Beauceron. ‘My relations with Sir Goccio are of the most cursory nature.’
Davanzato bowed fractionally. ‘I would not dream of regarding your word as anything other than scrupulously accurate.’
Sir Goccio said: ‘Under-Chamberlain Davanzato, you should not attach significance to a casual conversation at the Midwinter Ball. On this of all evenings, surely intercourse between our courts is permissible. Even you and I might converse with cordiality, did we but consider it agreeable.’
Davanzato reached for two glasses of sherbet from the table. ‘I am grateful to you for your insight, Sir Goccio. If you will excuse me, I intend to offer refreshment to Lady Isola.’
Beauceron raised his eyebrows. He doubted that Isola would welcome the attention, but he was not minded to intervene. A measure of cordiality between Isola and Davanzato could only make his life easier.
Sir Goccio mopped his brow with a lace kerchief as Davanzato moved away. The room was warm, with torches burning at close intervals and abundant dimonettoes nearby, but Beauceron knew this was not the only reason.
‘You should not have approached me tonight,’ said Beauceron. ‘Davanzato has the most keen perceptions.’
Sir Goccio tossed back a goblet of rum. ‘He knows nothing. He is fishing.’
‘Do you believe that?’ asked Beauceron.
‘I hope you show greater initiative on the battlefield. You cannot cower in the corner every time Davanzato approaches. What is his power? A knife in an alley would settle him in a moment.’ His eyes shone with a strange gleam.
‘Do not think I have not been tempted,’ said Beauceron. ‘He hates and fears me, and Mettingloom would be a safer place without him, but the fact is that I need his intervention; and he is not friendless. There are too many who depend upon him for their advancement.’ He paused. ‘Although if you are minded to take independent action, do not let me deter you.’
Sir Goccio reached for another goblet. ‘I would not buy his life with my own,’ he said. ‘One way or another, he will come to a bad end. It is simply a matter of patience. For now, we should part. I will wait on you in due course.’
5
Beauceron was well enough known to King Tardolio that he thought it not unreasonable to present his compliments. Surely Tardolio would give some subtle indication of his thoughts. He began to make his way over to the corner of the room where the Summer King was holding court.
Beauceron pressed through the throng and found himself drawn aside by a middle-aged man with a bald pate and self-important air: Urbizzo, the King’s Chamberlain.
‘Captain Beauceron, I believe.’
‘You know me well, Urbizzo.’
‘Not as well as you might think. You are hardly a familiar of our court, and neither should I imagine you would wish to be.’
‘I have campaigned under the Sunflower Banner. I merely thought to present my compliments to His Puissance.’
‘King Fanrolio licensed your previous campaigns. My sources suggest you are considering less formal activities. If I were you, I would be more discreet; and indeed I should reconsider my position altogether.’
‘The hospitality of your court is much lessened, Urbizzo, if a man may not present his compliments to the Summer King at the Midwinter Ball.’
Urbizzo sniffed. ‘His Puissance cannot give audience to everyone. My commission this evening is to weed out riffraff: a category in which I emphatically place yourself.’
Another voice, strong and well-modulated: ‘What goes here, Urbizzo?’
‘My lord! I was keeping undesirables away from your father.’
The newcomer looked at both for a moment. ‘“Undesirables”? Beauceron is the only commander of spirit in the Winter Court – or the Summer for that matter.’
Urbizzo flushed. ‘I only follow the instructions of your father the King.’
‘Go and chase undesirables elsewhere. I will deal with Beauceron.’
With poor grace Urbizzo sidled away.
‘Now, Beauceron, perhaps you will tell me why you are so eager to see my father,’ said Prince Laertio, a model of understated elegance in an indigo doublet and cerulean cape. His almond-shaped grey eyes took in the surroundings with almost imperceptible movements. Tall, with a slender muscularity, he looked everything Prince Brissio was not.
Beauceron bowed. ‘It is as I suggested to Urbizzo. I wished to pay my compliments to His Puissance.’
Laertio clapped him on the arm. ‘We have ranged the northern steppes together, Beauceron. I know you too well for that. Now, the truth.’
Beauceron shrugged. ‘I hardly know how to answer, especially given the implication that I lie in my throat.’
‘Beauceron! Do not be so prickly. I have heard interesting rumours, to the effect that Fanrolio has forbidden your assault on Croad, and that you intend to approach my father.’
‘Such a course would be treasonous.’
‘So it would. You are not known as a scrupulous man.’
Beauceron’s mouth twitched. ‘Perhaps not. I am, however, a cautious one.’
‘Let us step outside a while.’
‘The night is cold, my lord.’
‘You may prefer to discuss treasons in here.’
‘I do not wish to discuss treasons at all.’
‘Oblige me nonetheless. The air is stuffy, is it not? Dimonettoes are all very well, but any effect carried to excess must cloy.’
The crowd stepped respectfully aside at Laertio’s approach and soon they were out in that courtyard where, Beauceron reflected, he had killed Albizzo less than a season ago. It paid to tread carefully in Mettingloom.
‘Now we can talk like men, not fussy old women like Urbizzo and Davanzato,’ said Laertio.
‘You give me little incentive for frankness.’
‘Come,’ said Laertio with a laugh. ‘I care nothing if you betray Fanrolio: quite the contrary, in fact.’
‘I have never given any such indication.’
Laertio exhaled slowly, his breath a mighty cloud of condensation in front of him.
‘I have agents the city over, as a man in my position must. More than one tells me that you are losing patience with Fanrolio, and plan to approach my father. Somebody has told you my father looks favourably on the idea, or you would not take the risk. I would know the truth, Beauceron.’
‘You seem to know much already, my lord. My testimony would add little.’
‘You do not deny it, then?’
Beauceron smiled. ‘Since you are not disposed to believe me, I will not waste my time.’
‘Let me be candid with you. My understanding is that my father is completely, implacably opposed to the idea of a raid upon Croad, for reasons we both understand. If you know differently, I am interested to know how.’
‘You ask for information I cannot give.’
Laertio rubbed his hands against the cold. ‘I myself am not hostile to your raid. On the contrary, I support it with vigour. Were I King, as I could be tomorrow, I would launch the assault, and demand your own presence.’
‘You are not the King, my lord. Your father looks to enjoy excellent health; he could live another twenty years.’
‘Men die. All men die.’ He looked into Beauceron’s face without expression.
‘I am unclear as to your meaning.’
‘As you wish. If I were King, preparations for your assault would begin immediately. As matters stand, both Summer and Winter Kings oppose you. If I were you, I would be looking for ways in
which I might alter prevailing conditions in either – or both – courts. They say “Everything comes to those who wait.” Men of action know it for craven falsehood.’
Beauceron stared up at the top of the Viatory’s tower outlined against the clear winter sky. ‘What you are suggesting makes the treason you accuse me of less than nothing. Regicide, parricide . . .’
Laertio held up his hands. ‘I suggested nothing, Beauceron. Our interests may coincide, but only under certain circumstances. Perhaps, as a token of our potential understanding, you might wish to tell how you have come to believe my father’s attitude has changed.’
‘I gain nothing thereby. Either your father is hostile to the raid or he is not. I must verify the matter for myself.’
‘I verify it for you: his position is unchanged. Consider your advantage where you can take it, Beauceron.’
From behind them came a high clear voice: ‘Beauceron! Are you ignoring me?’
Beauceron thought guiltily of Lady Isola, whom he had left to Davanzato’s mercies, but the voice came from Lady Cosetta.
‘My lady! I thought you were the companion of Sir Thivalto.’
‘That tedious buffoon! What little interest I had in the breeding of gallumphers was exhausted within the first minutes of our acquaintance, but he would not take the hint. Who is your friend?’
‘My lady, may I present Prince Laertio, lord and heir to the Sunflower Throne. My lord, Lady Cosetta of Sey.’
Cosetta dimpled and blushed as she curtsied; Laertio gave an answering bow with stately gravity.
‘My, but you are well-connected, Beauceron!’ said Cosetta. ‘And Prince Laertio is even more handsome than Prince Brissio!’
‘Such is the consensus,’ said Beauceron with a smile. ‘No doubt Brissio has other advantages.’
‘You are well acquainted with Prince Brissio, my lady?’
Cosetta made a gesture of demurral. ‘I would not go so far, my lord. His father holds me for ransom, and he is kind enough to look to my welfare.’
‘Ransom? But of course, you are one of the ladies Beauceron kidnapped in Emmen! Beauceron, we all have reason to be grateful to you.’
Beauceron gave a sour smile.
