Saint's Blood

by Sebastien de Castell

  For the first time in my life, I wondered if the time of the Greatcoats really had passed. Or maybe Brasti’s right and I should just go and challenge the head of the Inquisitors to a duel. That’s the only thing I’ve been good at lately.

  But the truth was, however much I hated the idea of the Inquisitors, I didn’t really believe Quentis Maren was our true enemy. He was too obvious a target, too perfectly placed in our path: the kind of person we all despised and would naturally suspect. During my last hallucination, Aline had warned me: the enemy fits his masks to others, and in so doing hides his own face. And then King Paelis had said something else: to strike the enemy you must first pierce his deceptions.

  And Duke Jillard’s jibe came back to me: ‘Has it ever occurred to you that the people you’re so driven to protect are always women?’ I found myself looking around the room, at Aline, who’d nearly been taken by an assassin’s blade, at Ethalia, attacked by the God’s Needles last night, and finally Valiana, poisoned by blood from a madman’s tongue . . .

  Of course! ‘He’s an avertiere!’ I said.

  ‘A what?’ Aline asked.

  ‘An avertiere,’ Kest said, giving the word its archaic Tristian pronunciation, ‘is a duellist who uses feints and false attacks to distract his opponent, aiming at those parts of the body his enemy will instinctively protect – like the eyes or the neck – and drawing out wide parries so that when the avertiere launches his true attack—’

  ‘—the real target will be undefended,’ Aline finished.

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Brasti said. ‘Another fucking fencing metaphor to describe exactly how we’re being buggered. How does that help anything?’

  Aline looked annoyed at his glib tone. ‘It tells us that the crises we’ve been dealing with aren’t the real threat.’

  ‘The real threat?’ Brasti asked. ‘You think that trying to kill the heir to the throne, the Saint of Mercy and the Realm’s Protector aren’t real enough for him?’ He began pacing the room and his voice rose in volume and pitch as he cried, ‘The damned Saints are being murdered! We’re being infested with these lunatic “God’s Needles”, and even the bloody Inquisitors can’t deal with them, and meanwhile there are hordes of whining pilgrims massing outside the palace. Even I’m starting to think the fucking Gods hate us – and I don’t even believe in them!’ He stopped and threw himself heavily down on the sofa beside my chair. ‘I swear, if this keeps up much longer I’m going to take up religion – and trust me, none of us wants that.’

  The sounds of scuffling from outside the door drew our attention. Kest’s blade whispered from its sheath and Brasti’s bow creaked as he bent it.

  ‘Tommer’s out there,’ Aline said, rushing towards the door.

  I held her back with my right hand and lifted my rapier with my left. ‘Wait,’ I said, and after I saw her nod assent I swept the caltrops aside with my foot and opened the door. On the other side I was greeted by the sight of Pastien, Ducal Protector of Luth, lying on the floor on his backside, a hand to his cheek. Tommer stood over him, his own fist raised. Mateo held him by the wrist while his own blade, held straight out at neck height, moved between Pastien’s two guardsmen, who were looking very uncomfortable with their current choices.

  ‘The first blow was for standing by while my sister suffered,’ Tommer said. ‘The second will be if you ever again demand to see her.’

  ‘What in the name of Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears is going on here?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you suppose Saint Zaghev’s still alive?’ Brasti asked, sidling next to me to get a better angle on one of the guardsmen. ‘Because it would be just like this wretched country to have the worst Saint of all be the one who lives.’

  Mateo, still gripping Tommer’s wrist, replied, ‘Lord Pastien requested an audience with the Realm’s Protector.’

  ‘He demanded one,’ Tommer corrected.

  ‘I am the Ducal Protector of Luth,’ Pastien insisted, ‘and I’ll not be battered about by children in my own palace.’

  ‘Stand up,’ Tommer said to him. ‘Stand up so I can knock you down again.’

  ‘He really is going to make a terrible politician,’ Brasti commented idly.

  I sheathed my rapier. ‘Everyone shut up and put down your weapons.’ I grabbed Tommer by the collar of his coat, Jillard’s words from earlier coming back to me. If my son dies, I’ll make you pay for it. ‘And you: hold your temper until there’s a genuine threat to fight.’

  Reluctantly, the boy lowered his fist.

  I leaned over and offered Pastien my hand. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

  The young man rose to his feet. He straightened his jacket and his back. ‘I need help.’

  ‘We’re a bit busy killing each other,’ Brasti said amiably. ‘Try coming back later.’

  ‘Later may be too late,’ Pastien replied.

  ‘Then tell me,’ I said.

  He hesitated for a moment, no doubt searching for some way he might regain his dignity, but eventually he gave up. ‘The clerics I told you about . . .’ He paused again. ‘Yesterday Valiana suggested that I send scouts ahead, in case anyone tried to attack the delegation.’

  Hells – tell me there aren’t more dead at the hands of the God’s Needles . . . I steeled myself and asked, ‘Was the delegation attacked?’

  ‘No,’ Pastien said, then corrected himself. ‘Well, actually they were – my scouts say they spotted a dozen men preparing to assail the caravan, but they fled.’

  ‘A handful of priests scared off brigands?’ Kest asked suspiciously.

  Pastien shook his head. ‘It wasn’t the priests who scared them off; it was the contingent of armoured Knights accompanying them. A hundred of them. And Falcio, those Knights weren’t wearing Ducal tabards. They wore white.’

  ‘Church Knights?’ Brasti asked, incredulous. ‘There haven’t been any of those since—’

  ‘—since they were banned by Ducal decree a hundred and seventy years ago,’ Kest finished.

  The Church, it appeared, had had enough of being pushed around.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The Avertiere

  ‘A hundred Knights,’ Brasti repeated for the third time as our odd company sat staring at each other in Valiana’s chambers. ‘Where in the name of Saint Laina’s cold left tit did the clerics find a hundred Knights?’

  ‘From Hervor,’ Kest replied. ‘From Orison and Luth and even the Duchy of Aramor itself.’ He turned to me. ‘From the broken remains of those whose loyalty was sworn to Dukes whose entire family lines now lie buried.’

  I thought back to all the men I’d seen standing so arrogantly in their polished armour, their entire self-worth built on serving a great lord. Take that away from them and what did you have left? Big men in steel suits desperate for something – anything – that would restore their sense of personal honour. I think I hate Knights almost as much as I hate magic.

  ‘Valiana talked about restoring the Knighthood,’ Aline said, pulling me back.

  I looked over at the chair sitting in the corner of the room where Valiana sat alone, waiting for one of us to shout into those little slits in the front of her mask and tell her what was happening. ‘Why didn’t she?’

  Aline started to answer then stopped. After a few seconds, she said, ‘There was a great deal else to contend with before dealing with something so—’

  ‘It was you,’ the Tailor interrupted, favouring me with an angry stare.

  ‘Me? She didn’t even discuss the matter with me—’

  The Tailor gave a snort. ‘Do you suppose she doubted for a second what your opinion would have been on the matter?’

  ‘Well,’ Brasti began, a hard edge to his voice, ‘if it was going to be, “not even over our cold, dead bodies”, then for once Falcio would have been right.’

  Brasti’s law, I thought: no more armour. No more Knights. Only, it didn’t work that way; there would always be second sons, men with money and swords who wouldn’t inherit anything, a
nd they would always be looking for some way to distinguish themselves in the world. If they couldn’t find it from the Dukes, they’d search for it in religion. Saints. Inquisitors. God’s Needles. Church Knights. Why now? Why all of a sudden?

  ‘Is he losing it again?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘Leave him be,’ Kest replied. ‘He’s sorting something out.’

  ‘Well, Falcio sorting something out looks a lot like an old drunk trying to remember where he left his cup.’

  The Saints start being murdered, and that brings back the Inquisitors. The God’s Needles start sowing fear, and that forces the return of the Church Militant. And in the middle of it all are the common folk, already cowed by years of chaos since King Paelis died, desperate for order. No wonder so many of them were abandoning their farms and towns and turning to prayer and pilgrimage. Brasti was right. Any more of this and we’ll all be taking up religion.

  It was almost funny. Except it’s not a joke, I realised with a start. It’s the target.

  ‘Brasti was right,’ I said.

  ‘I was?’ he asked, then, ‘How?’ He turned to Kest. ‘And in future, please remember that the words “Brasti was right” came out of Falcio’s mouth, in front of several witnesses.’

  ‘You said there wasn’t a real Church in Tristia because they’ve always been fragmented, belligerent about their individual beliefs. All this time we’ve believed someone was attacking them – murdering their Saints, destroying their holy places . . . but what if this isn’t about destroying faith in this country. What if these aren’t acts of desecration at all?’

  ‘Then what else would you call them?’ Kest asked, trying to follow my reasoning.

  ‘Consecration,’ Ethalia said. Everything about Ethalia is in the eyes, and hers were cold and hard as iron now. ‘The Church isn’t coming apart. It is uniting, for the first time.’

  ‘By killing each other?’ Brasti asked. ‘How does that—?’

  Ethalia cut him off. ‘They’re creating a new religion – one untainted by division amongst the clerics, one free of interference by the living Saints.’

  The Tailor looked up at me suddenly: she could see the pattern as well now. I wondered if it pained her that I’d figured it out first. ‘It’s not possible,’ she said. ‘It’s too complex . . . all the threads that would have to be pulled at just the right time . . .’

  Brasti held up his hands to shut everyone up. ‘Hang on a minute here. Okay, so let’s say you’re right: let’s say the people being killed are those who might stand in the way of a new, united faith. But why destroy actual churches? Where are these new clerics supposed to preach?’

  It was Aline who worked it out first. She’d moved over to sit next to Valiana and had been relaying everything being said, but now she rose and said, ‘They won’t need churches. This new religion has no use for small, run-down roadside houses of worship or weather-worn sanctuaries.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘The churches they want have already been built.’

  I turned to Pastien. ‘How many guardsmen do you have at the palace?’

  ‘Not even fifty,’ he replied.

  So it would start here in Luth: a weakened Duchy led by an even weaker Ducal Protector. A hundred Knights. That’s all it’s going to take. From there, they’ll restore order, give the lesser nobles a little more of the power they so crave in exchange for subservience to Gods they care nothing for. I thought about all those terrified, desperate pilgrims outside. They just wanted someone to protect them, and now they’d get it. ‘Our enemy isn’t just creating a new religion,’ I said. ‘He’s creating a theocracy. The Church is taking over Tristia.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The War

  Throughout that night we did the things you do when you know the conquerors are coming for you. We discussed strategies, we debated plans, we made preparations. Mostly, we found out just how completely buggered we were.

  ‘So you decline then, your Grace?’ Pastien asked, seated on his throne in the great hall. He’d argued that the setting might make him more formidable. He’d been wrong.

  Hadiermo, Iron Duke of Domaris, gestured at his two guards holding his massive warsword across their outstretched palms and repeated, ‘I’ll not waste what few soldiers I have with me on a fool’s venture that’s just going to antagonise the churches.’

  ‘The Crown urges you to reconsider,’ said Aline, seated on a smaller chair next to Pastien’s throne. Valiana in her iron mask sat next to her.

  ‘What “Crown”?’ croaked old Erris, Duke of Pulnam. ‘All I see is a child on a stool next to a peasant girl in an iron mask.’ He turned around as if to address an audience that wasn’t there. ‘Who brought that disgusting creature in here anyway?’ His eyes finally settled on me.

  Ah, I guess I’m the audience for this performance.

  He smiled and said, ‘She belongs in a dark cell where no one will have to look at her.’

  Despite the provocation, I didn’t draw my rapiers, I made no threats. I kept my hands in the pockets of my coat. This was all theatre and I knew it. Let’s make the Trattari lose their tempers so we can feel justified in our cowardice. I glanced at Quentis Maren, standing with two of his Inquisitors. I was saving any rash moves for him.

  ‘Alas, your Grace,’ Aline said placidly, ‘the Palace of Luth houses only a few cells and only one is currently vacant, and that one we must save.’

  ‘Eh? For what?’ Erris asked, bemused.

  ‘For the next man who issues a threat against the Realm’s Protector.’

  Jillard, Duke of Rijou, stood apart from his fellow Dukes, leaning casually against a pillar. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed his fondness for leaning before now. ‘Perhaps we should calm ourselves and get to the point? Some of us have vital business in our own Duchies.’

  The vital business of which he spoke had come up suddenly, one might say miraculously, once word had spread that the clerical delegation was bringing a hundred armoured Knights with them. All of a sudden everyone is homesick, I thought.

  Mateo and I had snuck out during the night to inspect the barns, and sure enough, all three Dukes’ groomsmen were busy preparing their horses and those of their entourages. Had the three of them agreed to stay and fight, we could have turned the clerics away. That fact was not lost on the Ducal Protector of Luth. ‘Your actions ill-become your station, your Graces,’ the young man said, nearly shouting. ‘You would abandon your fellow—’

  ‘Fellow what?’ Hadiermo interrupted. ‘You’re no fellow of mine, you base-born mutt. Why do you think the Viscounts and Margraves of this pathetic little Duchy put you in that chair? I’ll tell you why – you’ll be easy to remove when someone worthy wants the seat.’

  ‘And what happens when someone wants your seat?’ Tommer asked. He was standing near his father, apparently still determined to run headlong into the first duel he could find. Jillard looked remarkably displeased. With me.

  Hadiermo took no offence, instead breaking out into his idea of a hearty laugh. ‘You think some traipsing troop of clerics and a handful of landless Knights will come to my home? Domaris has never fallen, boy – Domaris never will.’

  It was, in fact, true: Hadiermo’s Duchy had never fallen to any army . . . that’s because a body can’t fall when it’s already sitting down. No enemy had ever had to fight the Iron Duke; he avoided confrontation by letting potential threats run roughshod over his lands – and his people – and persuaded the invaders to let him handle the bureaucracy. It worked a treat for him and his; not so much for the common folk. But he’d always made his views on the peasantry quite clear.

  ‘So what, then, your Graces?’ Aline asked. ‘You will simply walk away and let Luth be taken – and what then? Will you trade with its new rulers? Will you—?’

  ‘We will wait,’ Erris said, leaning heavily on his walking stick. I had a profound urge to beat him senseless with it, especially now that I had some experience with using the cane as a weapon. ‘In all likelihood, whatever cleric
sits the throne of Luth won’t do so for long.’

  ‘And if they do?’ Pastien asked.

  It was Jillard who answered. ‘My brother Dukes are confident that there is no danger to our own Duchies. Despite recent events, the simple fact remains: we have more than enough troops to protect our own lands. Our minor nobles are well-heeled and our peasants well-fed.’

  I’d tried to remain silent, but I found I had to ask, ‘And you, your Grace? Do you agree with their conclusions?’

  Jillard looked straight at me. ‘I have been given no reason to believe otherwise, First Cantor.’

  The glib answer angered me, not because I expected better of the Duke of Rijou – he was, after all, still a vile man whom I fully planned to kill one day – but because he was right. We had spent half the night debating how the Church might take over the country. Aline had studied every day under Valiana, I had learned from her father, Kest had read everything that had ever been written on warfare, and the Tailor – well, she knew everything that hadn’t been written. We could see any number of ways in which the Church might take over several of the Duchies – maybe even all of them, but we could see no means by which they could keep them. It’s one thing to conquer and quite another to hold.

  Duke Erris’ cackle brought me back to the room. ‘He’s not the First Cantor any more,’ the old man said. He pointed to Quentis Maren. ‘The Inquisitors have the task of administrating the Law now. May they do a better job with it than the former holders of that office.’ He reached into his robes and drew out a rolled document fastened with an ostentatious ribbon. ‘This decree removes the Greatcoats from authority.’

  ‘May I see that, your Grace?’ Aline asked.

  One of the old Duke’s retainers took the decree and quickly ran it up the dais to hand it to Aline. She opened it, read it out loud and then handed it to Valiana. There was a bit of fumbling, but once she had it securely in her hands, she tore the document in half and half again, and let the pieces drift down to the floor.