by Emma Newman
He had to focus on what Iris and Poppy had gifted him. There was no going back and no other option. His patron demanded perfection.
Will opened the doors onto the throne room. The air was hot with the press of people and filled with a riot of perfumes. It was a grand space, two stories high, used by the mundanes as an art gallery. The walls in the Nether room were filled with framed mirrors instead of art as a precaution against the use of Charms in political discussions.
At the far end of the room was a low dais with two gilded chairs upon it, one smaller than the other. The Tulipas sat as Duke and Duchess, and the head of the Digitalis family stood next to Bartholomew, holding the sceptre that indicated he’d thus far retained his position as Marquis of Westminster.
“You’re late, Will!” Freddy’s voice boomed across the room, making everyone turn and look at him. “Shame you missed the best bit. I thought you planned to stand. Would have been a damn sight more interesting.”
He chuckled and the rest of the room fell silent as they watched Will enter, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew. He thought of Sophia’s perfect skin scarred forever, he thought of the terror Cathy must have felt and the sight of her lying in the hospital bed, her jaw black, her chest in bandages. He distilled it all into a single sharp point and the men and women of the Court parted as he made his way towards the throne.
“William.” Bartholomew smiled. “I was wondering when we’d see you. I too thought you’d be here earlier. I hope nothing untoward has delayed you?”
Will suppressed a knee-jerk response to Bartholomew’s feigned ignorance. Instead, he walked up to the lowest step and said, “Bartholomew Semper-Augustus-Tulipa, I accuse you of the attempted murder of my wife Catherine Reticulata-Iris and demand your immediate resignation from the Ducal seat you obtained by foul means.”
As his wife paled Bartholomew’s face was the perfect picture of shock and indignation. The crowd burst into a gabble of gasps, commentary and a burst of expletives from Viola, but Will ignored them all.
“William, what are you saying?” Bartholomew finally replied. “What happened to Catherine? Is she well?”
“She almost died. You sent an assassin to kill my wife and it’s my right to demand you step down and answer for your crime.”
Bartholomew stood, rested a hand briefly on Margritte’s shoulder and went to the edge of the dais. “William, I did no such thing. I have no idea what madness has possessed you to walk in here minutes after I’ve been declared Duke and accuse me of an utterly despicable act, but I beg you to withdraw to a private room with myself and the Marquis to discuss what has happened.”
“There is no need to discuss anything. I know you’re responsible and, if you will not step down, then I claim the right to challenge the throne by combat.”
Bartholomew’s eyes were wide with horror as Freddy muscled his way to the front. “What is this nonsense?” he boomed, dropping his huge hand on Will’s shoulder. “Has the devil taken you? You’re making a fool of yourself, even I can see that. The Duke has been generous enough to give you a way to withdraw. Be grateful, young blood, and take the offer.”
“Remove your hand, sir,” Will said through his teeth. “This has nothing to do with you.”
Viola tutted, shaking his head. “I just don’t like to see a young lad lose badly.”
Will rounded on him. “He tried to kill my wife!” His voice rang off the mirrors, amplified by the dreadful hush of the assembled. “It’s my right, damn it.” He looked at the Marquis. “You know this is true!”
Digitalis tugged at his cravat, his face pink at the sudden attention. “There is a precedent,” he said to Bartholomew. “If a challenge to the throne is made in open Court, the Duke must respond. If it’s resolved by combat and the challenger is victorious, he has the right to take the Dukedom.”
The words elicited a roar of speculation. Will shut it out as best he could to study Bartholomew’s face. His forehead shone with sweat and he was determined to maintain his act of the innocent wrongly accused. Bartholomew looked back at his wife, whose eyes were shining with tears, and then looked down at Will. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from this course of action?”
“No.”
“Then I must respond to your accusation. I did not send an assassin to kill your wife, William. There is nothing in this world that would make me commit such a heinous act. But whoever has convinced you of this has been most persuasive. I have no choice but to accept your challenge.”
“Bartholomew, don’t pay attention to the whelp,” Freddy said, but the Duke held up his hand.
“I cannot ignore this.” He looked at the Marquis. “Here and now?”
“Yes, your Grace. A direct challenge to the throne requires an immediate duel to the death.”
Margritte was on her feet. “William, think of your wife, she needs you.”
“Don’t assume I’ll lose,” Will said. He tossed his frock coat aside, drew his sword and stepped towards the centre of the room.
The crowd drew back to the edges as Bartholomew lifted off the heavy ducal livery collar of golden oak leaves and laid it reverently on the throne. He then went to Margritte, bent down and kissed her. The tenderness of the act irritated Will. He carved a figure-of-eight in the air with his rapier and the whooshing of the blade through the air satisfied him.
Will tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t trained properly for several weeks. He did his best to block out Freddy’s pitying look and Bartholomew’s total confidence as he removed his jacket, drew his rapier and came down into the centre of the room. He looked sad, as if he had to put a favourite pet down, rather than fight off a serious contender to the throne and defend his honour.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Will.” He took his position opposite. “We could have been very good friends.”
Will remained silent. He had to use his boons wisely or he was going to die. He held up the hilt in front of his face, tip of the sword pointing to the ceiling, to indicate he was ready. Bartholomew shook his head sadly and then mirrored the movement before easing into a comfortable on-guard stance. His back was straight, shoulders relaxed, sword in his right hand.
There was a predictable exchange. Bartholomew was limbering up and testing his responses. Will remembered countless sparring matches with Nathaniel, who accompanied every one of his mistakes with an insult. Nathaniel was an expert in ridiculing whilst fighting, something Will had always wanted to be able to do with the same aplomb. He’d found it impossible to develop such a skill when constantly on the receiving end. What it did teach him, however, was not to be distracted by anything said once the fight had begun.
Seeing an opening, Will went in with an attack. Bartholomew anticipated it and parried expertly, answering with a riposte that sliced into Will’s shirt.
“Excellent, Barty!” Freddy shouted.
Bartholomew backed off and Will stole a glance at the cut fabric. There was a tiny amount of blood and no pain. That slice should have cut him badly. One down, two left.
Bartholomew had moved far more quickly than he should have and Will knew he had employed a Charm, no doubt one of many at his disposal. Will just had to hit him once, just once, but every time he moved to strike he was parried or his blade thrust into air after Bartholomew had expertly side-stepped.
“Regret it now, boy?” Freddy heckled.
“Quiet, Freddy,” Bartholomew said. “This isn’t the time.”
Will parried an attack, evaded another and very narrowly parried a third. He was working at the peak of his ability whilst Bartholomew was just warming up.
“I didn’t send anyone to kill Catherine,” Bartholomew said. “How you could think I would do such a thing I will never understand.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have much longer to ponder the question,” Will replied and Freddy roared with laughter.
Bartholomew smiled and then his blade was slashing Will’s chest. It happened so fast Bartholomew was withdrawing before W
ill even realised he’d been hit. Again, his opponent gave him the chance to see the wound. His shirt was so badly cut his chest was mostly exposed along with a pale red mark, like a scratch from a cat. A single drop of blood was running towards his belly button. He only had one more left.
Bartholomew raised an eyebrow. “Your patron favours you, it seems.”
“He understands my desire to protect my family and see justice done.”
“Is he cheating, Barty?” Freddy boomed.
“No,” Bartholomew replied. “He’s fortunate, that’s all.”
Another flurry of attacks and parries. Will felt his shirt clinging to his back as sweat rolled down it. He tried to recall all the times he’d managed to strike Nathaniel; there’d been so few of them he could usually remember them with little effort. Now his life was in the balance it was harder, but one did surface.
It was, on the face of it, no more than a traditional feint. It was the lead-up that had snared Nathaniel and it wasn’t something that Will had intended. He’d got angry, slashed ineffectually and then decided to give up. Then he’d noticed Nathaniel lowered his guard, just for a second and he exploited it. Nathaniel gave him a gash on the arm and a good beating in return, but it had been worth it.
Will waited for the next attack and defended himself but pretended to foul up his footwork.
“You’ve got him scared, Barty!” Freddy called out, just as Will predicted he would, and in response he launched himself forward with a flurry of furious attacks. None got through Bartholomew’s expert defence but they were enough to give the impression of desperation.
Will retreated, letting himself pant audibly. Freddy jeered and Will concentrated on letting his shoulders drop, making his stance loose and his expression hopeless.
Bartholomew looked like a man who wanted to be elsewhere. “This is pointless.” He glanced up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer in the heavens. It was the moment Will had been hoping for and he lunged forward with the perfect strike. Any other man would have been run through but Bartholomew twisted in time to reduce the injury to a cut on his stomach.
It was enough.
To everyone else Bartholomew would just look shaken, natural when injured for the first time in a duel, especially one in which the abilities were so mismatched. But Will could see his eyes glaze and his grip on his sword altered, as if he was doubting the feedback from his hand. Poppy had promised an instant effect and he hadn’t exaggerated.
Bartholomew blinked rapidly, adjusted his stance and made an attack but it was slower and Will parried it easily. It was like fighting someone of his own ability instead of a man with over two hundred years of experience on him and Charms to speed his reflexes. Will felt a rush of confidence, then reined it in. The duel wasn’t over yet and he could only survive one more strike before he was completely on his own.
He lunged and Bartholomew parried, but he had to work hard to do it in time. Attack, parry, riposte; Will could see Poppy’s opiate charm taking hold. Will feinted then stepped in and ran Bartholomew through, just as his blade skewered Will an inch above his hip. They were caught on each other’s blades briefly, then Bartholomew staggered backwards and Will pulled his blade from his gut.
Margritte’s screams filled the room as her husband collapsed, his sword still stuck in Will’s side. Will pulled the blade out and laid it at Bartholomew’s feet, marvelling at the lack of pain.
As Bartholomew’s blood pooled Will felt his thigh muscles twitch, his heartbeat deafening. The Marquis rushed to Bartholomew’s side and both Freddy and Margritte pushed people out of the way as they closed in around him and Will.
The Tulipa’s rattling breath could be heard when Margritte reached him, her screams dying in her throat as she fell to her knees at his side.
“Will.” Bartholomew reached towards him with a hand covered in his own blood.
Will approached, taking care to keep away from Freddy, who looked ready to throttle him.
“I’m here.”
“I didn’t send anyone to kill Catherine. I swear it. On my family’s honour, on the life of my wife and children.”
Will clenched his jaw as a flicker of panic rose up from his gut. “My sources say otherwise.”
“Lies,” Bartholomew whispered and his head lolled towards Margritte.
Will stepped back, not wanting to overhear the last words spoken between man and wife. Freddy was glaring at him and Will faced him fully.
“Say it.”
“You’ve done a terrible thing, William Iris,” Freddy growled. “A terrible thing.”
A guttural moan from Margritte told him Bartholomew had died. He straightened. “I acted with my Patron’s blessing and I saw justice done for my family. If you or anyone else here has a problem with that, you’re setting yourself against not only me but the entirety of the Iris family.”
Freddy was a social oaf, but it seemed he was no fool when it came to picking fights. He knew that if he took his grievance further in public, he would drag his family into a war without the support of his elders or his patron. Freddy settled back into a steady glowering, then wrenched his gaze away from Will to Bartholomew and his face twisted in grief.
The Marquis cleared his throat and made his way back to the dais. The assembled watched him in stunned silence as Margritte’s awful sobbing filled the room. Will looked at the throne and tried to think only of Lord Iris and how pleased he would be, anything to try and block the sound out.
“In accordance with ancient law,” the Marquis began in a tremulous voice, “the Ducal seat of Londinium passes to the successful challenger who proved his right to rule with victory in combat.”
He beckoned to Will who walked up the steps. Bartholomew’s blood was drying on his blade, his shirt was slashed and he smelt of sweat.
“I, the Marquis of Westminster, do hereby recognise William Reticulata-Iris as the Duke of Londinium, granting him the rights and privileges of the rulership of Londinium. If there are any here who will not recognise his right to take the throne, speak now.”
Will held his breath as the Londinium Court stared at him in silence. A man bearing a strong family resemblance to Freddy was in close conference with him; Will assumed he was counselling Freddy to remain silent. He looked at the Peonia who had been so stubborn, now looking at the floor uncomfortably. The Wisteria contingent were frantically whispering to each other.
But no one spoke out. Will was under no illusion that he was being welcomed by the Court; they all knew Iris had personally supported his challenge.
Satisfied that form had been kept, the Marquis retrieved the collar from the throne and placed it on Will’s shoulders. It was reassuringly heavy and Will appreciated that he had succeeded.
“Long live the Duke of Londinium,” the Marquis hailed as Will sat on the throne. The Court echoed the call but Will suspected they’d cheered louder when Bartholomew had ascended earlier that evening. He looked out over their faces and saw no warmth, no respect. He watched Margritte being guided out of the room as Freddy laid his cloak over Bartholomew’s body. Will knew the battle for Londinium had only just begun.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Jennifer Udden of DMLA once again for great feedback on an early draft of this book and also Lee Harris. Both of you made this book so much better.
I remember, with love and grief and gratitude, the hours that my late best friend, Kate, listened to me read this book aloud. She laughed at the right bits, gasped when Will did something she didn’t expect and believed in this series with such passion that it helped me believe in it too. I miss you and will always love you.
I’d also like to thank my husband, Peter, for…well, everything really.
Lastly, but certainly not least (I so want to say leastly but I must resist), I’d like to thank my Mum for spotting a rather glaring error—the sort that would have come back to haunt me a thousand times over on the internet, no doubt. Thanks Mum!
All Is Fair
The Split Worlds: Book Three
Emma Newman
For the one who sewed as she listened
1
Fifteen hours after the Sorcerer announced it was the perfect day to take over the Agency, Max finished the preparations. He sat in the chair at the head of the table in the Agency’s largest meeting room, satisfied his sweep of the area was complete. There were no indications of sorcerous magic, no residue of Fae magic picked up by the Sniffer, and the traps were laid. He looked at the gargoyle standing by the window ready to give the signal. It looked back at him, eager for something to happen in a way Max couldn’t remember.
“Tell Ekstrand we’re ready,” he said and the gargoyle closed the curtains, counted five seconds and then opened them again.
“We wait bloody ages for him to give us something useful to do, and then he wants it all done yesterday.” The gargoyle’s grumble was accurate enough. Max would have preferred more time, but Ekstrand hadn’t listened to his concerns.
After a few moments of peering out into the grey mists of the Nether the gargoyle said, “Acknowledged. Get the stick ready. I hope Ekstrand realises that it’s his fault if this doesn’t work.”
Max pulled it out of the pocket of his raincoat. The rod looked like it was made of smoky quartz tipped with copper, and was covered in sorcerous formulae. As Ekstrand had instructed he twisted the top two inches forty-five degrees until the formulae glowed and then thrust it through the floorboards by his feet. It went in as easily as a pin in corkboard and disappeared out of sight, leaving only a neat round hole in the wood.
“What now?” the gargoyle asked.
“We wait.”
A tremor shook the building, making the upturned glasses in the centre of the table rattle against the wood. The gargoyle gripped the stone windowsill with its claws. “He’s not being subtle,” it said. “Look!”