The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  Fanrolio looked at the Lords of Equity uncertainly.

  Your Puissance,’ said Lord Gionardo, ‘Mongrissore’s point may be over-legalistic, but his quibble is accurate enough. Beauceron is entitled to bear a sword until your verdict is reached.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Fanrolio querulously. ‘The byways of the law can be hard to trace at times.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Puissance,’ said Mongrissore. ‘Soon your judgement will be revealed and uncertainty banished.’

  Fanrolio’s expression brightened. ‘Just so, Mongrissore.’

  Davanzato shot Mongrissore a glance of glassy dislike. Score your petty triumphs while you can, his expression seemed to say.

  A footman brought the King a sealed parchment: the judgement Fanrolio himself had written the previous night. He broke the seal and unrolled the paper. He squinted in an attempt to read his handwriting. Beauceron looked on in contempt. Whatever the outcome, Fanrolio was in his dotage: he had been fully justified in pursuing alternative strategies. Why had he not thrown his lot in with Laertio?

  ‘I have been nobly advised by my Lords of Equity,’ said Fanrolio, ‘in deciding this difficult and painful case of conspiracy against my own authority. My lords are unanimous in their thoughts, and I cannot demur from their conclusions.

  ‘Beauceron, the evidence before us leaves only one conclusion. You are guilty of grand treason, and tomorrow you shall die.’

  4

  The sentence of death was hardly unexpected, but Beauceron nonetheless felt an almost physical blow in the base of his stomach. He had faced death many times, but never in this impersonal way, a man in front of him reading from a script. He had never lacked the opportunity to fight back.

  Mongrissore rose languidly from his seat. ‘Your Puissance, a moment for further consideration, if I may.’

  Fanrolio blinked more rapidly than usual. ‘My judgement is fixed and decreed, Mongrissore.’

  ‘I would not dream of disputing your right of judgement, Your Puissance. My concern relates to a point of law only.’

  ‘Sit down, old man,’ said Davanzato. ‘The race is run, and you have lost. Let us now proceed with dispatch: a traitor cannot die a day too soon.’

  Mongrissore’s voice deepened. ‘You will listen to me, Under-Chamberlain Davanzato. Your Puissance, you can confirm that you have sentenced Beauceron under the Old Law.’

  ‘Must we revisit this tedium again, Mongrissore?’ asked Fanrolio with a fretful scowl. ‘My wits are not what they were, but I remember an extensive clarification of this point yesterday. Beauceron has been tried and condemned under the Old Law.’

  ‘Exemplary clarity, Your Puissance. Ah, Lord Gionardo, you have a point to make?’

  Gionardo looked back at him sourly. ‘You have us, you rogue.’

  Mongrissore nodded and smiled. ‘The Lords of Equity know the law, which is encouraging. Under the Old Law, which we are all agreed pertains here, I invoke the right of my client to trial by combat.’

  Beauceron stared at Mongrissore. The hall had already been silent, but now even that silence seemed quieted. Beauceron had had no idea of Mongrissore’s intention; hardly surprising, then, that everyone else was stunned.

  Lord Gionardo shook his head with a rueful grin. He might have lost, but the legulier in him could not but admire Mongrissore’s skill. ‘Mongrissore has this right, my lord. Beauceron may challenge the material witnesses against him – in this case, Sir Goccio.’

  From further along the row came a clatter; Sir Goccio had dropped his papers to the floor.

  Beauceron uncoiled himself and stood. ‘May I not challenge Davanzato instead?’

  Ulrado gave a wintry smile. ‘The approach has much to commend it, but it is not sanctioned by the law. If you wish to have your right of trial by battle, it is with Sir Goccio or no one.’

  Beauceron smiled softly and sought Sir Goccio’s gaze. ‘If that is how it must be, I claim my right.’

  From the far side of the room came the sound of one person clapping. Beauceron looked to see Prince Laertio, and smiled. His hand dropped to the hilt of his rapier. Now he understood why Mongrissore had enjoined him to keep his fitness up.

  5

  After a stunned pause and a period of frantic activity during which Sir Goccio was furnished with a rapier, a space was cleared in the Great Hall. The courtyard was too cold for spectators, and this was an administration of justice which required witness.

  The perimeter of the Hall was ringed with dignitaries, leaving the centre free for the combatants. There was ample room for manoeuvre on the chequered black and white tiles.

  Both Beauceron and Sir Goccio had removed their jackets and stood ready for action in crisp white shirts and black breeches. Sir Goccio looked at Beauceron as if to say something; Beauceron merely shook his head. No doubt Sir Goccio was disinclined to fight, but he had no way of withdrawal that did not make him appear both coward and perjurer.

  Each man gave a perfunctory bow to his opponent and the King, and then they began to circle cautiously. Beauceron was in no hurry to make the first move: he had a reputation as a formidable duellist, and he preferred to let that reputation work in Sir Goccio’s mind; not that the Sunflower Knight was to be taken lightly. He was a professional soldier, and in good condition.

  It was Sir Goccio who moved first, a feint and lunge combination which Beauceron easily parried. He riposted, as much to feel Sir Goccio’s defence as with any aggressive intent. Sir Goccio was light on his feet, his body sideways-on to Beauceron to provide the minimum target area. Head and feet, head and feet, thought Beauceron. Swordplay was a simple activity made over-complex through fear. He felt himself moving almost into a trance: he was aware of his weight transferring through the balls of his feet by infinitesimal movement, his head still, alert. He could hardly sense Sir Goccio at all, a bobbing figure at the edge of his perceptions. The figure came towards him, Beauceron adjusted his feet, flicked his wrist and Sir Goccio retreated again. With a sudden surge of movement Beauceron skipped aside, ducked back in, flashed his blade forward. There was a gasp from the crowd, a stifled cry from Sir Goccio, a patch of red on his shirt. Sir Goccio danced back out of range.

  Sir Goccio disregarded the nick with a grimace. He stepped back towards Beauceron, flicked again, and Beauceron moved his head aside; the blade whistled past his face by a whisker.

  Beauceron was unaware of the crowd, barely aware of the lunging, parrying Sir Goccio: he knew only himself, the tautness of his sinews, the crispness of his steps, the occasional blinding movement and the more usual self-contained watchfulness. Eventually, as Beauceron had known it must, Sir Goccio’s frustration, his guilt, his impatience, goaded him into a lunge a fraction too aggressive, his defence left open an instant too long; before he had consciously assessed the situation, Beauceron had reached out with his sword arm, the point slicing through cloth, skin, heart. Sir Goccio coughed and a bubble of blood came from his mouth. Before any chance of regret or last words, he slid dead to the floor.

  Beauceron turned away. Sir Goccio would not be rising to threaten him. With a final backward glance, he handed his sword to Lord Gionardo. He breathed heavily as he said: ‘I have exercised my right to trial by combat. If there are others who would speak against me, let them come forth.’

  Lord Gionardo took Beauceron’s sword. ‘You are vindicated under the Old Law. You are innocent, and a free man.’

  Beauceron bowed to the Lords of Equity and the King. He donned his coat, shook hands with Mongrissore and strode out past the marvelling crowd.

  6

  Kainera had ensured that Beauceron’s house was kept clean and aired in his absence, and his heart lifted when he finally shut his door. It had been many nights since he had slept under his own roof. Lady Isola had vacated her apartments, and although they had kept apart while she lived there, the house seemed empty without her. This small occasion of melancholy was not enough to sour his mood, although he thought with regret of Sir Goccio. He had been
a good man, and largely honourable; as much a victim of Davanzato as Beauceron had been. He could not afford to dilute his rage against Croad by wasting time settling his score with Davanzato; but nonetheless the Under-Chamberlain remained a grave danger, and not a man to let one failure end his designs. Davanzato would have to be dealt with, not from vindictiveness, justifiable as that would be, but from simple prudence. He would speak to Mongrissore tomorrow.

  There was various correspondence awaiting his attention; one letter stood out: the envelope had the Sun Seal of the Summer Monarch. Could Laertio be starting his overtures already? Surely he would have more sense than to commit his thoughts to paper. He reached for his dagger and slit the seal.

  Captain Beauceron,

  Allow me to express my admiration for your skilful and courageous defence of person and reputation. Your acquittal will come as a relief to all who believe our strong realm needs every man of vigour and enterprise to fight for us.

  I am conscious that our paths have rarely crossed during your time in Mettingloom, a loss more to me than yourself. I hope that your complete vindication will allow you to accept the social invitation of the Summer Court without fear of envious tongues and ill-informed speculation.

  I pray, therefore, that you will wait upon me at your convenience,

  Your cordial admirer,

  Agalina

  Princess of the Summer Court

  Beauceron set down the letter in puzzlement. He knew Agalina by sight – they had even exchanged words on occasion – but as she said, their paths had rarely crossed. Agalina was a young woman not only of charm, but intelligence. She was not a naive girl, regardless of the gushing letter she had written. If she requested his company, it was not for the pleasures of sharing sweetmeats or wine. Something underlay this cordiality, and he could not fathom it. The easiest way of finding out was to accept the invitation, although that might not be an advisable course. But if he went openly, his recent acquittal surely made him proof against further plot.

  The sensible course still remained to stay at home, to continue to work upon Fanrolio. Davanzato’s reputation could not have been helped by the treason trial, and an audience with the King was not out of the question. On the other hand, the days were lengthening; the air had not the chill it had held before his incarceration. No one could deny that spring was coming. If Fanrolio did not act soon, there would be no chance of raising the Winter Armies before Tardolio reascended the throne. It would be perverse not to understand what, if anything, the Summer Court had to offer.

  He reached for his quill, wrote a brief letter to Princess Agalina and a longer one to Mongrissore. He was a gambler; he would throw the dice once more.

  7

  Beauceron called on Princess Agalina the next day; spring was drawing ever closer and there was no profit in delay. He had never visited the Summer King’s palace – the Printempi – which was set back among a scattering of isolated islets to the north of the Fins.

  He presented himself to the Chamberlain at the appointed time, determined to avoid furtiveness. He had been invited openly by the Princess, and he would attend in the same spirit. He was, after all, a celebrated figure in the wake of his remarkable acquittal.

  He was shown into the Princess’s reception rooms, furnished with the same quiet good taste which characterized Agalina herself. Beauceron put her age in the mid-twenties, old to be unmarried, especially for such an attractive woman. The number of men suitable to marry a princess of Mettingloom was not high, however. It was inconceivable that the royal house of Emmen would wish to ally itself with what it saw as renegade blood, so Tardolio’s choices in finding a husband for Agalina were limited to his own nobility or the royal houses of more distant realms. The former possibility risked raising a rival to himself, and while in the latter case there was a sufficiency of princes from Garganet, Gammer-ling or even Paladria, those who were available did not necessarily wish to invoke the full implications of an alliance with the Northern Reach. When added to Agalina’s notoriously haughty temper it was perhaps unsurprising that she remained a spinster.

  ‘Captain Beauceron,’ she said, rising from her seat to shake his hand, ‘I am honoured by your visit.’

  ‘And I by your invitation,’ replied Beauceron, unwilling to be outdone in empty formality.

  Agalina gave a half-smile. She understood the game. Her dark hair, which would normally have cascaded in a gentle wave, was confined in a fillet behind her head; her equally dark eyes knew no such restraint, and took in Beauceron’s person with a look of frank appraisal.

  ‘Please, take a macaroon cake,’ she said, proffering a plate. ‘I find in the winter I crave sugar to keep my mood sanguine.’

  Beauceron accepted with an inclination of his head. ‘The time for sweetmeats will soon be past, my lady; spring can be only a few weeks away.’

  ‘My father’s thaumaturge suggests less than a month,’ she said. ‘How I hate the cold.’

  ‘King Tardolio maintains a weather-wizard?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Of course – and not just to foretell the weather,’ she said. ‘When the first green shoot is seen in the garden at the Occonero, it is spring, and the Summer Court steps forth. My father would be negligent if he did not attempt to speed the event. Pintuccio is not simply a thaumaturge but a horticul-turalist.’

  ‘I had never considered the matter,’ said Beauceron. ‘No doubt King Fanrolio employs a similar device.’

  ‘Just so. His thaumaturge attempts to bring on the first snows, of course.’

  Beauceron furrowed his brow. ‘I was not aware that he maintained a thaumaturge.’

  ‘Of course not. You are out in the field in the autumn, trying to clip the last Emmen heads before the winter comes.’

  ‘How we are all run by the seasons,’ said Beauceron with a smile.

  Agalina sipped at her tea. ‘You are right, Captain. No doubt there are good reasons for our customs in Mettingloom, but they lead to some curious outcomes. There cannot be a King who has not considered uniting the crowns.’

  ‘By force, necessarily.’

  ‘Since the sole other option would be my marriage to that buffoon Brissio, I can only hope so.’

  ‘Your brother has a similar conversation technique of alluding to the unthinkable to assess the listener’s attitude. Let me state unequivocally I have no interest in overthrowing King Fanrolio; and I would make the least apt marriage-broker imaginable.’

  Agalina gave a high tinkling laugh. ‘I have in mind neither of the schemes you suggest – although I confess I would raise an army myself to avoid marrying Brissio. It may also interest you to know that Laertio departs for Niente on the morrow.’

  ‘Far Niente? How so?’

  ‘Candidly, my father does not trust him. At times his conduct goes beyond headstrong.’

  Beauceron cast his mind back to Laertio’s schemes and grimaced.

  ‘I see you take my meaning,’ she said with a chilly smile. ‘My brother’s position prevents him facing the full consequences of his acts; that does not apply to his associates.’

  Beauceron inclined his head.

  Agalina smiled as she sipped her tea. ‘I had not been sure what manner of man I would find today. I admit that your intelligence is at the upper end of my expectations.’

  Beauceron rubbed his ear. ‘I would have been distressed to find it otherwise.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘is your rage against Croad as extreme as is portrayed?’

  ‘I suffered a great wrong from the rulers of Croad in my youth. My pride does not allow me to forget it.’

  ‘Will you not tell me of this slight?’

  Beauceron gave an ironic smile. ‘I have not spoken of it thus far; I see no reason to change my policy today. I would not wish to impugn you with the vice of vulgar curiosity, but if I were to tell you of my feelings, you would regard them as trivial, overstated or even – worst of all – pitiable. I am always conscious that an air of mystery sits
well upon a man.’

  Agalina’s round cheeks dimpled. ‘You are more adroit than I had expected. Are there any lengths you would not take to reach your goal?’

  ‘I prefer not to deal in hypotheses.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Let me be more explicit. You have been acquitted of conspiring with Sir Goccio to lead the Summer Armies against Croad. Legal processes being what they are, acquittal and innocence need not be one and the same.’

  Beauceron said nothing.

  ‘If my father were keen to avenge Jehan’s Steppe, he would not use a reed like Sir Goccio. You should perhaps have realized this.’

  Beauceron nodded.

  ‘I am going to make an assumption,’ continued Agalina: ‘that you would not, in fact, be hostile to involvement in my father’s army if he chose to move against Croad.’

  ‘If you have followed my recent trial you will be aware that such an intent on my part would be treasonous.’

  ‘Pah! We are alone. Talk of treason is irrelevant in this context.’

  ‘I have enemies in the Winter Court. I cannot treat treason in the cavalier fashion you suggest.’

  ‘I am the King’s daughter. If I say that I know Tardolio wishes to avenge Jehan’s Steppe, you can believe me.’

  ‘Your brother said the opposite,’ said Beauceron with a frosty smile.

  ‘For reasons we both understand, and which we need not explore here. My father wishes to avenge Jehan’s Steppe, and he wishes you to help him. He understands your unique constraints; at this stage, an agreement in principle will be sufficient.’

  ‘What you ask is not trivial. I have been approached twice before with the selfsame offer.’

  Agalina gave him a haughty look. ‘These men were Davanzato’s agents. You may be sure that the Summer King’s daughter is not.’

  ‘Will the invasion go ahead without me?’

  ‘Candidly? I do not know. You have special information which will make any assault more likely to succeed; you have a troop well used to fighting in the South and a lust to take the city. Without that, I do not know.’