Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  ‘Of course, Majesty.’

  Without another word Tannick Ryder turned and left the courtyard, his Wyvern Guard following close behind. Cormach was at their rear, not even deigning to glance at Merrick. Not that Merrick minded. If he never saw that bastard again it would be too soon.

  ‘That will be all for today,’ Janessa said to Kaira. ‘You may walk me back to my chambers.’ Then she looked at Merrick. He had expected at least some degree of disappointment but there was none, even though he’d let her down so badly … again? ‘You should get yourself cleaned up,’ she said.

  With that, she and Kaira left the courtyard.

  Merrick wasn’t sure whether he’d wanted Kaira to offer him scorn or sympathy, but she didn’t bother either way. It didn’t seem like anyone gave much of a shit, but then Garret offered him a kerchief to dab his bloody nose.

  ‘Tannick was right; you shouldn’t feel bad.’

  Merrick shrugged. ‘You did warn me, I suppose.’

  ‘I tried. But you don’t take advice from anyone, do you?’

  Garret didn’t wait for an answer. He too walked away, leaving Merrick half dressed and bleeding in the chill of the courtyard.

  Right now, that felt about as much as he deserved.

  THIRTY-TWO

  On any other day Governess Nordaine’s capacity for chatter would have driven Janessa to the edge of her wits. Not today, though. Today she was grateful for the woman’s prattle. It helped drown out the thoughts in her head, the hateful memories of Dravos; how he’d violated her thoughts, his sickly eyes staring into her soul.

  Though he was dead, his shadow seemed to haunt her. She should have felt vindicated, should have been proud, but she could not bring herself to revel in her victory. At the time she had been thrilled by the experience; the feel of the weapon in her hand, the satisfaction as it pierced Dravos’ chest, the sound of his head hitting the floor. The Helsbayn had seemed to almost sing as she wielded it.

  Now all that remained was a numbness.

  Or is it a yearning? Do you wish to wield that sword again? Do you need to feel its weight in your hands as its edge hacks more flesh, bringing you further glory?

  Janessa blinked away such thoughts as she stared out of the chamber window. Nordaine saw to her gown, tightening the ribbons of her bodice very gently, taking pains not to pull too hard around her belly. Below the bodice a skirt billowed outward in an attempt to hide the fact that Janessa was thickening at the middle. The dress could do little about her bosom, which threatened to pop out over the top of her neckline, but a well-placed scarf would suffice to hide it. Fortunate, then, that it was the start of winter, the air colder, the nights growing longer.

  The door to her chamber opened and Kaira stood waiting.

  ‘They are ready, Majesty,’ she said.

  Janessa just nodded. A bond had formed between the two of them and they had grown closer still after Dravos’ attempt to … how could she describe it?

  To control you. To take over your mind. To remove you from the game altogether and place his master on your throne.

  Whatever had been his intention, he was gone now. His body and those of his men had been spirited away by Odaka, and most likely thrown in the Storway with the rest of the city’s filth. How she would explain his disappearance had played on her mind, though she felt she owed the Bankers League no explanation. The man might have been their representative but he had come with his own agenda at the behest of his ambitious master. Once Janessa had rid the Free States of Amon Tugha she would have revenge for the attempt to ensorcell her. Kalhim Han Rolyr Mehelli of the White Moon Trading Company would not escape the consequences of his actions.

  Janessa made her way to the dining hall, Kaira walking ahead of her, Merrick behind. He had been silent since his duel in the gardens and she had thought it best not to press him on it. Despite the man’s defeat she still trusted he would do his best to defend her. Despite the dedication of her bodyguards, it had been weeks since Janessa felt truly safe. Though she knew her guardians would lay down their lives for her, it did little to calm her nerves.

  She had been so determined all those weeks ago. On the day of her coronation she had stood looking out at her city and vowed to be a strong, a courageous ruler. Now, with the child inside her, with not just her own life at stake, that courage seemed a distant thing.

  As she entered the great feast hall, Janessa was struck at how empty it was. Where once had sat courtiers, aldermen, stewards, magistrates and other men and women of state, there were now just three figures. The table looked ridiculous with so few people at it – and all sitting as far from one another as they could manage.

  Janessa couldn’t blame the sycophants of court for deserting the palace. They didn’t have to be there. They didn’t have to stand by while the city fell. Better that they should run anyway – they were useless to her.

  The three rose to their feet as she entered, bowing as she approached the table. After taking her seat she bestowed a gracious smile on each of them.

  Seneschal Rogan produced a smile in return, never letting his mask slip. Baroness Magrida was equally proficient at affecting the proper airs, though it looked as though her face might crack from the effort. Chancellor Durket looked suitably uncomfortable, and whether he was still in shock from the recent attack on Janessa, or whether he was as eager to flee this place as the rest of her court, it was difficult to say.

  As they sat, servants carrying platters appeared and the first course – a meagre bowl of honeyed oats – was placed before each of them. Durket looked down at the paltry fare with a disconsolate look, but as Janessa took up a silver spoon and began to eat, he did likewise.

  ‘I trust your Majesty is well?’ said Rogan.

  Janessa noted he hadn’t touched the food before him. She smiled as though everything were perfectly normal – as though the enemy wasn’t almost at the gate, as though assassins weren’t trying to kill her, as though foreign powers weren’t trying to usurp her throne.

  ‘Of course, Seneschal,’ she replied.

  Though he said nothing further, she knew he was after something. Did he know what had happened? Only Odaka, Durket and her Sentinels knew about Dravos. They had taken great pains to ensure the incident remained a secret, but she conceded it was Rogan’s job to discover things others would rather stay hidden.

  Janessa turned her attention back to the bowl in front of her. Despite being almost drowned in honey the oats tasted bitter, but Janessa ate though her appetite was lacking.

  She had no real desire to converse with her dinner guests, but it was far preferable to the uncomfortable quiet that descended over the table once they had finished the porridge. She looked up at the Baroness, who was dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

  ‘So your son, Lord Magrida, will not be joining us?’ Janessa asked, instantly regretting her question. How would Isabelle take to her showing interest in Leon? Hopefully not as a sign Janessa was interested in his hand.

  ‘He is unwell,’ the Baroness replied with a smile. ‘Though if he were here to sample the food on offer I doubt he’d feel much better.’

  ‘Many people within this city will not be eating at all this evening, Baroness. We should be more grateful for what we have.’

  ‘Of course,’ Isabelle replied. If her feathers had been ruffled by the rebuke she didn’t show it. ‘It’s only fitting that we should suffer along with the masses.’

  Her insincerity was barely masked.

  ‘We are far from the brink of starvation,’ Janessa replied.

  ‘Quite so,’ Isabelle said. ‘And some of us need to keep our strength up.’

  What did she mean by that? Surely she couldn’t know …

  ‘I … I’m quite sure …’

  Isabelle smiled. ‘I meant that with the trouble to come, you will need to have your wits about you. Facing the northern hordes in a weakened condition would not serve you well, Majesty.’

  ‘Indeed. But I am sure I will be strong en
ough to face what is coming.’

  ‘I envy you your confidence. If only we could be so certain of victory.’

  ‘If you are afraid of defeat, Baroness, I can see to it that you are conveyed far from Steelhaven before the Khurtas arrive. You and your son.’

  Still Baroness Magrida sat and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it, my dear.’ My dear? ‘Leon and I are determined to see this through. To offer you any and all support.’

  And what support would that be? Your son lounging around in his bed all day leering at the housemaids or you following me through the corridors with your judgemental eye?

  ‘We are most grateful for it, Baroness,’ she replied, raising her glass of water in a mock toast.

  Isabelle raised her wine in return and took a sip, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on Janessa.

  As the next course arrived – chicken stuffed with lemons on a bed of turnip – Odaka entered the room. Silently he took his place to the right hand of Janessa.

  ‘Apologies for my tardiness, Majesty.’ With that he glanced towards Seneschal Rogan, who ignored the look, though Janessa was sure he noticed.

  ‘Of course, Odaka. I am sure there is much to which you must attend.’

  The tall warrior didn’t answer, merely gazed at Rogan, who looked up from picking at his chicken.

  ‘Anything we need concern ourselves with?’ the Seneschal asked.

  ‘You know it was.’ Odaka continued to glare across the huge dining table.

  Rogan looked back calmly. There was no love lost between these two, but then Janessa had known that for a long time; not least because she could sense Rogan manoeuvring himself for power.

  Before her father’s death she had only trusted Odaka, and Rogan had been all but invisible. Now with King Cael gone it seemed the Seneschal of the Inquisition was trying to make himself invaluable within Janessa’s court. Whether she valued him or not, she felt she needed all the advisors she could muster in such trying times, and so far Rogan had not seen her wrong.

  Odaka, however, did not share her view.

  ‘It appears there has been an incident in one of the gaols,’ said Odaka. ‘There have been fatalities.’

  Janessa looked to Rogan, who shrugged. ‘Unavoidable really, what with so many fighting men cooped up in one place.’

  ‘You put Zatani warriors in a gaol alongside mercenaries,’ said Odaka, his voice low and menacing. ‘What did you think would happen?’

  ‘I won’t pretend to understand what prejudices you might hold against a rival tribe, but they were willing warriors. What should I have done with them? Let them roam the city streets?’

  ‘You should have turned them away at the gate. They are not men but beasts of the wild. Bred only for killing.’ Odaka raised his voice. Janessa couldn’t remember when she had last seen him lose his veneer of calm. ‘Now three mercenary companies are threatening to leave the city and the Zatani are in cells.’

  Rogan held his hands up in a placatory manner. ‘I can hardly be blamed for the attitude of mercenaries. Word is they’re leaving because we have nothing to pay them with, not because of some brawl. Isn’t that right, Chancellor?’

  He looked over at Durket, who froze, his partly chewed food filling his bloated cheeks.

  ‘We …’ Durket managed through his full mouth.

  ‘Apparently our would-be saviour,’ Rogan continued, ‘the representative from the Bankers League, has gone missing. We can only assume he left on the first boat back to the East, taking his promise of financial aid with him.’ He looked at Janessa expectantly.

  Did Rogan know what had happened with Dravos and his bodyguard? Not even Durket could have been so stupid as to tell him.

  ‘We were unable to come to terms,’ Janessa said quickly, before Durket finished what was in his mouth and said something stupid.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rogan. ‘That’s what I heard.’

  That’s what you heard? And where did you hear that, Seneschal Rogan? From one of your rats, hiding out in the eaves?

  Janessa stood, the tartness of the lemons suddenly making her feel ill. That would be all she needed, to throw up all over the feasting table.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. Everyone at the table rose to their feet as Kaira moved to her side.

  She tried to hold herself steady as she walked from the room. Merrick opened the door to allow her to leave, while Kaira stood beside her all but propping her up. Janessa was thankful for the support.

  When she reached her bedchamber she sat heavily on her bed, her responsibility weighing on her.

  ‘Are you well, Majesty? Do you need water?’ Kaira asked.

  Janessa shook her head. ‘I’m just light-headed, that’s all.’

  Kaira sat beside her. ‘Is it the child?’

  Janessa smiled. Few people knew she was with child and she was thankful for that. Of those who did, Kaira was the one she trusted the most – she had risked her life to save Janessa; almost died for her.

  ‘No, the baby is well.’

  The door opened and she heard Merrick telling someone they had to wait, before the imposing figure of Odaka pushed his way inside

  ‘It is fine, Merrick. Please.’ She beckoned Odaka to enter as Merrick closed the chamber door behind them.

  Kaira stood as the regent entered, recovering her veneer of discipline. Now, it was Odaka’s turn to look concernedly at Janessa. It almost made her laugh, their fear for her. The city was on the brink of attack and here they were concerning themselves with one light-headed girl.

  She stood up. ‘I am fine. Azai Dravos is dead. Nothing of him or his insidious sorceries remains. My only regret is we were unable to secure his master’s coin before he died.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Odaka replied. ‘Without it we will lose the support of the Free Companies.’

  Janessa went to the window that looked out upon a city that might soon be razed to the ground.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘Were I not with child, perhaps Dravos would not have tried to take advantage. Perhaps he would have played straight with me. It has cost us everything.’

  ‘No, Majesty,’ said Kaira. Janessa was surprised. Though in private they spoke often, her bodyguard never voiced her opinions in front of others, especially not Odaka. ‘Dravos knew what he was doing from the start.’

  ‘She is right,’ said Odaka. ‘There was nothing that could be done. No outcome other than his death or your enthralment.’

  ‘Then we should be resigned to our fate,’ said Janessa, still staring out on the city.

  ‘No, we should not. Every man, woman and child in Steelhaven is prepared to defend its walls. Your father’s bannermen will be back in the city soon. They will bolster our ranks.’

  What’s left of them.

  ‘Thank you, Odaka.’

  She wanted to say that she was confident they would put up a valiant fight. That with such brave and loyal warriors victory was assured. But Janessa knew that a valiant fight would not be enough to hold back what was sweeping down from the north.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Waylian had never set foot in the Trades Quarter before and it certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. It hardly qualified as a ‘quarter’ for a start, squirrelled away as it was between the Crown District and the Storway River. He’d anticipated bustle and verve, streets alive with the sound of ringing hammer and humming saw, the air on fire with rich aromas.

  Fact was, the streets were all but deserted and stank as bad as the rest of the city. He passed a brewery that stood beside a tannery, and the mixture of smells almost turned his stomach. A blacksmith honed horseshoes beside a cooper crafting barrel rings, and the sound of their duelling hammers made such a discordant din he was forced to cover his ears.

  He had difficulty navigating the narrow streets. It was only as he was beginning to feel he’d trodden every lane and alley of the Trades Quarter that he found the house he was looking for.

  It was a narrow building, stretching upwards in between
a weaver’s and a chandler’s. Unlike most of the dwellings in this part of the city it seemed well constructed; its stonework was uniform, the wood of its door recently varnished, the knocker and handle polished to a sheen. On the wall beside the door was nailed a brass plaque, embossed with the words: Sequeous Qale – Scribe. Waylian had to stop himself from punching the air in relief. Instead, he merely knocked three times.

  After what seemed like an age, there was a jangling of keys and the door opened a crack, a thick chain snapping taut to stop it. The mournful face of an old man appeared. His features drooped with age, and grey hair fell to his chin. On his pointy nose sat a pair of spectacles, the thick lenses making his eyes look enormous.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the man.

  ‘Sequeous Qale?’ said Waylian.

  ‘I am. And what can I do for you?’

  ‘My name is Waylian Grimm. I’ve been sent from the Tower of Magisters. Your apprentice, Josiah Klumm, has been summoned on urgent business.’ Waylian held out the sealed scroll Gelredida had given him.

  Sequeous took it in his gnarled fingers as Waylian passed it through the crack in the door. With some difficulty the man broke the seal and unrolled it. Waylian watched as the old man cast his huge eyes across the letter. When he had finished he looked up, then slammed the door in Waylian’s face.

  That went well, Grimmy. You appear to be excelling at this kind of business! Magistra Gelredida will be so proud.

  Waylian breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the chain rattle on the other side of the door, and Sequeous opened it. The old man said nothing, just turned and shuffled on down the corridor, allowing Waylian to follow.

  The house smelled musty and old, every surface seeming to wear a layer of undisturbed dust. The corridor was lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling, each shelf stuffed to the gills with ancient leather-bound tomes. Where there was no room on the shelves, Sequeous had piled the floor high with yellowing scrolls and parchments of varying sizes.

  Waylian followed the old man into an adjoining room. Light filtered in through four windows, lancing through the musty air. Four study tables sat in a rough square, islands in the midst of yet more books and parchments. At each of the tables sat one of Sequeous’ apprentices, head bowed in studious observation, quill scratching away with calligraphic precision.