Maillard looked at the general, then around the table. “Only fools cease to learn. Arthan is young and Bardil younger still, but all of you will ably guide them in my absence.”
“Father, what about Raymond’s assassin?” Bardil asked. “I’m not the brightest by far, but the Reimvicks are the only lord minister family besides us Valients that are not relatives of the king. Could you be next?”
Arthan glanced at Bardil, surprised at his moment of intellect but lamenting his tactlessness.
“Peace is worth every risk, Bardil,” his father answered. “Now—farewell.”
Arthan watched Maillard depart before looking back at his father’s counselors. He could see some doubt in their eyes as they prepared to go about their tasks. Alfrem noticed his stare and approached.
“Don’t worry, my lord,” he said, placing a comforting hand on Arthan’s shoulder, “your father knows how to navigate the king’s court, and Delavon is in our collective good hands.”
“Thank you, Alfrem.” Arthan nodded and took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever was to come next.
2. FETZER
Perilune Academy, Barres Ministry
Midspring, 3034
Fetzer tapped his foot impatiently and looked around at the other young men and women on the benches. Fresh-faced sergeants all, hoping to hear their names called at the end. Fetzer’s mind drifted to his journal entry prior to the assembly.
…and if they don’t, well, that will be it. I’m already twenty. Most make knighthood by now. I don’t even have a squire badge. If Father were alive he’d have made this right. Uncle won’t, so perhaps I must.
His thoughts were interrupted when everyone jumped to their feet and stood at attention. Fetzer did too. Headmaster Cabot entered the assembly hall, followed by Count Atilon’s representative, Renz. Fetzer wrinkled his face in disgust. The count could not be bothered to greet his new knights.
“Be seated,” Cabot said as he took the podium. “Today I have the honor of announcing the promotions to squire and knight for service in Count Atilon’s army under Sigbert, Lord Minister of Barres and servant to our king. As you know, every year we…”
Fetzer’s mind wandered again. He stared past the headmaster to the count’s coat of arms, the lord minister’s coat of arms above that, and the king’s royal banner above that. He hated their ridiculous, overdone ornamentation. His own Sember family crest was a simple azure shield with thin bands of red and black. He had once written in his journal:
The academy’s crest is painted with boar heads that speak of decapitation, not vigor. The grain bundles of Atilon are reminders of famine, not plenty. And the wheels of Sigbert Wachot betray crushing oppression, not commerce…
“And now,” continued the headmaster, “the count’s representative will call the names of those promoted with these honors.”
Renz stepped to the podium and began reading a list of names given to him by a scribe. The young men and women across the benches could not stifle their small celebrations upon hearing their names. It made Fetzer feel sick. To be placed at Perilune Academy was easy for low nobles like the Sembers. But to be personally chosen by Count Atilon was rare.
Fetzer kept his eyes fixed like ice on Renz as he spoke, anxiously thumbing the sapphire wist ring on his finger. He recalled his father giving it to him, and how his older brother sneered at Fetzer’s pride at feeling like a Sember man. The longer Renz spoke, the more agitated Fetzer became and the harder he pinched the sapphire. Shame and anger burned like a red coal within him as he stared into the bland face of Renz.
“Report to the courtyard in the morning,” Renz said. Fetzer watched him and Headmaster Cabot depart, leaving some sergeants elated and others hopeful for next time. He noticed a group of sergeants congratulating Gade and a few others. Before Fetzer could look away, Gade sent a glare his way that slowly turned into a smile.
“Another failure for Fetzer!” Gade shouted across the hall. “Tuck your tail and go home!”
Fetzer felt the burn swell within him. He made himself breathe and recalled his plan.
…pass me over again. Then I’ll abandon my post here. I don’t need them. I don’t need any of it…
Fetzer finally stood and yanked the yellow Perilune tunic up over his head and let it fall to the floor. The young man next to him picked it up.
“Fetzer, you dropped your—”
“Shut it! You can stop pretending to care.” Fetzer glanced toward Gade again but he was gone. He felt a chill down his spine.
He leaped into the aisle and rushed straight to the barracks, expecting to find Gade ransacking his things. Everything seemed normal, so he gathered his few possessions and stuffed them into his travel sack. But there was something missing. He held his breath and looked again. His heart throbbed as his eyes darted across the room, looking for the worn binding of his journal. He overturned his bed in frustration. Then snickering bubbled up behind him.
“Looking for this?”
Fetzer turned to see Gade flipping roughly through his journal. Pages were tearing.
“Listen,” Gade said to the group that had gathered before him. He cleared his throat as he prepared to quote: “‘I do miss Fernon, though I wouldn’t tell him so. My brother has followed in my father’s footsteps better than I ever will. Fernon will have the barony. He will carry the Sember banner. I cannot share in his honors, his victories, or his loyalty…’”
“Who knew the bastard son of a dead baron and a leper whore could have a soft heart?” said one of Gade’s friends. They all laughed.
“But you’re right,” Gade said to Fetzer. “You’ll never be a knight, much less have any shred of honor or victory to speak of. Just another Sember swamp rat.”
Fetzer kept calm, squared his shoulders, and stabbed Gade with his eyes. “I don’t need the rank to prove I’m better with a sword than you. I’ve spent more time wielding my sword than you’ve sp—”
“This one?” Gade grabbed a sword from a nearby sergeant and held it up.
“That was my father’s sword when he was at Perilune,” Fetzer said. He felt a fire bubbling over within him.
Gade spit in Fetzer’s journal before snapping it closed. He tossed the book toward Fetzer, then hacked at it with the sword, cleaving off a corner.
Fetzer wasted no time. He snatched up a woolen blanket and tossed it toward the group, then rushed Gade. He deftly dodged the point of his father’s sword and punched Gade in the throat. Then he received a few blows from the other sergeants and new knights as they swatted the blanket away. But he managed to pluck the sword from Gade’s hand.
Gade sputtered backward as the others fell upon Fetzer. Fetzer defended himself as best he could. They did not stop kicking and hitting when he fell. They grabbed for the sword, but he held fast.
Something sparked within him. Images of his dead father’s body and his mother’s leprosy flashed through his mind. His brother’s absent stare, his uncle’s cruel face, and Gade’s sneer. As they pummeled him he turned his wrist to position the sword, then he thrust out repeatedly. Two sergeants screamed, and the others let up.
But Fetzer did not stop. He shoved and cut, bringing the blade up over his head and striking in every direction. He felt a hot rush in his veins as his hands and face dripped with crimson. When he stood alone, he slung his travel pack over his shoulder as the rest of the sergeants and new knights fled the barracks or took up arms.
Fetzer stepped toward Gade. He was slouched against the wall, still holding his throat and gasping. Fetzer was comforted by the fear in Gade’s eyes, and remembered his own thoughts:
…because fear is a curious thing. It arrives when we see our life leaving us, yet its shock can send us on our way to live again. Fear cannot be anything but the tool of a devious god who enjoys bending the wisps of our lives…
Fetzer stooped to pick up his damaged journal and level his eyes to Gade’s. “You know, I’m certain you would have
made a good knight…” The fear brightened in Gade’s eyes as he struggled to breathe. “But I don’t think you would have lasted long outside Perilune.”
Fetzer stood and placed the journal in his pack. Then, without hesitation, he swept the blade across Gade’s face. He stepped over the bodies toward the door. The remaining sergeants kept their swords up but made no attempt to stop him.
---
“What in God’s name?”
Fetzer gave his puzzled uncle a cautious glance as he entered the house and locked the door. “What is God’s name, Uncle Laval?”
“What have you done?” His uncle looked over his bloodstained clothes with wide eyes.
“We give ourselves many names, many titles,” Fetzer said. “But God seems nameless, faceless, detached…”
“What are you talking about? Why this bloodshed?”
Fetzer quietly filled his pack with food from the pantry.
“I warned your father long ago,” Laval said. “‘This one,’ I said, ‘this one is trouble.’ But he wouldn’t listen. To his last dying day he wouldn’t listen!”
The door shuddered as there was a sudden pounding from outside. “Open in the name of the count!”
“What trouble this time, Fetzer?” Laval asked as the shouting grew more intense. He grabbed a sword from above the mantel as Fetzer calmly approached him.
“They were no trouble, Uncle,” Fetzer said. “Neither will you be…Put the sword down.”
“Stand fast, little devil,” Laval said, stepping toward the door. “I warned your parents. And I kept a place for you here after they died. I did what I could for you and Fernon…”
“You treated Fernon like a prince and neglected me at best. Step away from the door.”
Laval lunged for the door as it shuddered amid the shouting. Fetzer drew his sword and lashed at Laval’s wrist, then his knees. Then he walked away, gathering up additional supplies as Laval writhed in pain on the floor.
When he was done, Fetzer took a small burning log from the hearth. He walked around the house, touching the log to fabrics and furniture and Laval’s clothing. Then he walked upstairs and exited out a back window.
3. TRONCHET
Eglamour Palace, Toulon Ministry
Midspring, 3034
“Ill news indeed,” King Erech said, stroking his blond beard. “This is the worst time to lose Raymond…”
Tronchet stood in his customary place in the front row of court, but it was still difficult to hear the hushed voices of the king and the lord ministers who huddled around him. Like everyone else, Tronchet suspected the rumors were true.
“Aren’t you glad Raymond was not in the capital?” whispered someone beside Tronchet. He turned to see Hamelin, commander of the Crownblades that protected His Majesty.
“Yes,” Tronchet whispered back. “As a lawkeeper, such a brutal and mysterious murder would be embarrassing for me. And you.”
The pair turned back toward the king and his cluster of whispering advisers. Then the quiet was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious voice.
“Can the Lord Ministers’ Council offer a recommendation to His Majesty?”
Tronchet knew the voice well. Duke Brugarn walked out from behind Erech’s throne, picking his teeth while glaring at the ministers.
“We do,” Maillard Valient answered as the lord ministers finally stepped back from the throne. “The eldest of Raymond Reimvick’s living brothers, Edmond, would be an able ruler for Wallevet. We recommend the king confirm him as Raymond’s successor, in line with ministerial tradition and Edmond’s abilities.”
“What has he paid you to give his name?” Brugarn asked, his voice heavy with accusation.
Maillard ignored Brugarn’s insult and kept his eyes on King Erech. But Tronchet noted that the king seemed detached. Erech simply stared back until Maillard responded.
“Your Majesty, it will not surprise you that we are also concerned that Raymond’s death will cause the negotiations on the fate of the Empire Alliance to falter. A few of us are prepared to keep talking with the Almerians and the kings of Pemonia, should you wish it.”
“Should I wish it…” Erech repeated absently.
Tronchet caught himself shaking his head and stopped. He had too often witnessed the king’s indecision on important matters, but it was getting worse.
“Foolish talk with foul beasts is foolish indeed,” Brugarn said.
Tronchet looked away. It was always a bit too much when the king’s brother fancied himself a purveyor of wisdom.
“What need do we have for it now?” Erech finally asked.
“The Empire Alliance has been the foundation of relative peace between us and the other kingdoms and Almeria,” Maillard said. “Well before any of us were born.”
“Hasn’t stopped the battles I’ve been required to fight my whole life,” General Chaultion said.
“Small borderland battles were always understood not to jeopardize the broader peace,” Maillard said. The general glared at him.
“And there are other repercussions to consider,” said Sigbert Wachot, lord minister of Barres. “Even if we get the Almerians to withdraw from our islands, the Kingdom of Calbria claims those islands, too, and will surely fight us for them.”
“To say nothing of their claims to my gold mines in Merbredel,” said lord minister Rand Halevane.
“Then we attack first!” Brugarn shouted.
“Your Majesty, I also support attacking the islands,” Chaultion said to Erech.
“We are not prepared to make war on two fronts,” Maillard said. “Calbria can summon twice as many soldiers as we can, and the Almerians occupy heavily fortified positions on those islands. Furthermore, the Rugens on our southern border will suspect we plan to attack them as well, given their conspiracy-drunken leaders.”
“We cannot afford to provoke war on three fronts,” Sigbert agreed. “We must settle our demands over the table, not on the battlefield, if we can.”
Tronchet could see the word cowards forming on Brugarn’s lips. But the duke was cut off.
“So be it,” the king said. “Then the Valients will host the talks. Rachard is a faster ride for the Calbrians, Austveedes, and Ovelians anyway. We can arrange for the Almerian and Rugen ambassadors to be escorted to your capital forthwith.”
“Finally rid of them!” Brugarn blurted.
“But this will be the last attempt,” Erech continued.
“And doomed to fail,” Brugarn said.
“I’m honored to serve,” Maillard said.
“Don’t budge on our demands to the Almerians,” Erech said. “I’ve grown weary of them.”
“We could join forces with anyone on the continent to kick them off the islands,” Chaultion said. “And if anyone else wants our islands, I’ll meet them on the battlefield.”
“If we provoke war,” Maillard said, keeping his eyes on Erech, “we’ll get it three- or fourfold.”
“Then let it come,” Brugarn said. “The Almerians probably killed Raymond to provoke us. We’ll answer sword with sword!”
Tronchet noticed Sigbert straightening to his full towering height. “Cared for Raymond, did you?”
“Sniveling appeaser of Almerians,” Brugarn said, “but he was still a Donovard.”
“My lords,” Maillard began, “these are grave issues that the king must—”
“My brother the duke has always been my wisest counselor,” Erech interrupted. Tronchet wanted to vomit at the notion. “We are all aware of what is at stake. The Empire Alliance was broken years ago and merely limps along today. Do what you can, Maillard, and we will see who needs the alliance more. As for Raymond’s successor, Edmond Reimvick will be satisfactory.”
Waldemar, Steward of the Palace, called Tronchet’s name as the lord ministers filed away from the throne. “Your Majesty, your next audience is with Sir Tronchet, Chief Magistrate of Eglamour.”
“Not again…” Brugarn
mumbled. Tronchet ignored him.
“My king, I’m aware of the many important issues that trouble your time. However, I bring to you another matter, one more personal to you…” Tronchet glanced at Brugarn’s souring face.
“What could be more personal than the future of my brother’s kingdom, you old fool?” Brugarn asked. Erech raised his hand to silence the duke.
“My king,” Tronchet continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “her thefts have continued. I don’t know how much longer I can contain this. The victims demand your justice.”
“Victims?” Brugarn chuckled. “Anyone who loses jewels to her is careless, brainless, or both.”
“Your Majesty, she continues unabated,” Tronchet said.
“One of his lord ministers was murdered and his favorite messenger blinded by an assassin from the shadows,” Brugarn said. “The Empire Alliance will collapse any day now, and our treasury dwindles while your constables are too lenient with collecting taxes. Yet you continue to bother the king with this pestering mite of an issue?”
“Your Majesty, I only—”
“Speak to Her Mother the Queen, if you must,” Erech said. “But don’t bring this to me again.”
Tronchet bowed his head low.
“If you bring this again,” Brugarn said, “I’ll piss in your pretty chief magistrate hat and you’ll wear the new hat of chief of the chamber pot.”
Tronchet kept his composure, adjusting the royal purple feather in his black magistrate cap. “Your Majesty…Duke Brugarn,” he said with a bow as he departed.
---
Tronchet stopped himself before he came to Queen Andrilenne’s outer chambers. He did not trust her judgment any more than he did the king’s. The queen had become increasingly insular over the years as Erech lost the little respect he had previously commanded.
If only I could catch that girl red-handed, he thought to himself. Perhaps then the king or queen would listen. Probably not. But perhaps Tronchet could convince the girl to change her ways.
Lords of Deception Page 2
