If she saw the fear in me, she gave no sign. ‘The Tailor knows the politics of Tristia. She knows the ways of war. She’s got a hundred tactics that might help us.’
I thought about those ‘tricks and tactics’: she’d been using them to try and bury the noble families not so long ago. ‘I can’t believe Jillard hasn’t had her killed yet.’ What’s happened to the world when you can’t even count on rapacious murderers any more?
‘Duke Jillard consults with her regularly, Falcio. He might not like her, but he respects her intellect. He would very much like to know what she knows about the world.’
I held my tongue, waiting for my sense of betrayal to pass; I couldn’t believe she’d gone to the Dukes without speaking to me first. She’s right, though. You can’t help her govern the country. The Greatcoats weren’t meant for that. ‘It sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.’
She gave that quirky little smile that I recognised. ‘I do.’ Then she hugged me hard enough to take the edge off the pain. ‘I love you, Falcio. You’re fast and you’re clever – but you’d make a lousy politician.’
I laughed, this time unexpectedly without bitterness. ‘Gods, you remind me of him sometimes.’
‘Who?’
‘The King. Your father.’ I felt her tense up and realised how stupid I’d been to say that. ‘I’m sorry, Aline, I don’t—’
‘No, it’s all right,’ she said, but let go nonetheless. ‘It’s just . . . I wish I could have known him.’ She walked over to her night table and picked up a thin leather-bound book. ‘I found some of his journals – I read them at night, and I try to picture his face, as if he were reading to me. But I know I’m just making it up in my head.’
There was nothing to say: I had known Paelis as well as any man alive and I missed him every day. If I were a better storyteller I could help her feel a connection with him through my own recollections, but somehow, whether because I’m just not that articulate or because I felt too jealous of those memories to share them, I was never able to do it.
‘Did you know that he’s buried up in Pulnam?’ Aline said. ‘Near the village of Phan, where we hid from Trin’s forces?’
‘I didn’t,’ I replied. What an odd thing. I’d left Castle Aramor before Paelis had been buried and had never in all these years thought to find his grave.
‘Isn’t that strange?’ Aline went on. ‘We were right there, sitting on that little hill and looking up at the stars together and he was buried not thirty feet from where we sat. I think that’s why the Tailor spent so much time in Phan after he died.’
That made sense. It was a place where Dukes and Knights would be unlikely to ever venture, where she could set herself up and visit her dead son without fear that anyone would find the grave and unearth the body for Saints-know what nefarious purpose. I thought back to sitting on that hill, trying to imagine where precisely he might be buried. Should I have felt it, somehow, when we were there? For all the times I imagined the King talking to me, cajoling me, making fun of me, I hadn’t ever had the slightest glimmer of his presence there.
‘Falcio?’
‘Hmm?’ I said, pulled from my thoughts.
‘I have a favour to ask.’ She paused as if trying to choose just the right words. ‘If . . . if I do die sometime soon—’
‘You’re not going to die.’
‘I am,’ she said, her voice firm, ‘and so will you, one day. But if I die before you, would you take me back to Phan? Would you bury me up on that hill near my father?’
‘Aline, I’m not . . .’ It wasn’t an unreasonable thing to ask. Why shouldn’t she lie next to her father when the time came? Life had kept them apart; maybe death could bring them together. And yet I didn’t want to say the words.
‘I want to hear you say it,’ she said.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘but only because you’re going to be Queen one day and I plan on being a terribly unruly subject.’
She didn’t laugh, but my answer seemed to satisfy her nonetheless. ‘Good.’ She held a hand to her mouth and yawned. ‘I’m very tired now, Falcio. I think I’ll go to sleep, if that’s all right.’
I hugged her one last time. ‘Of course. We can talk again in the morning.’ I watched her step back to her bed and sit down on top of the covers. She leaned back until her hair touched the pillows and closed her eyes, looking as fragile and vulnerable as a piece of crystal that would shatter if you gripped it too hard.
I would have to push the Dukes now, get them to move up her ascension. The sooner Aline took the throne as Queen the sooner the country would get that the issue was settled and those voices whispering dissension would realise the game was over. There is a deep and long-standing fear of shedding royal blood in Tristia; even amongst the lunatics.
Aline was so still that I wanted to reach out and make sure her heart was still beating. Kest must have slipped into the room because I felt his hand on my shoulder. ‘She’s alive, Falcio. Trust in that and stop imagining her death.’
He was right; it did no good to fret. I should just be glad that Aline was safe for now. But how could I do that while staring down at the pale skin of the young girl who even now looked as if she might already be dead?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Ally
I left Aline’s room and headed off in search of the two things I needed most at that moment: food and solitude. As though the Gods themselves had once and for all decided to declare war upon me, I hadn’t even made it to the grand staircase leading to the main body of the palace before the next attack on my sanity, if not my life.
‘My Lord First Cantor!’ a voice called out from behind me, and I spun around to see who was accosting me now, twisting my ankle in the process.
‘Son of a bitch,’ I swore.
The young, handsome, irritating face of Pastien, Ducal Protector of Luth, looked as if I’d just smacked him across the nose with a book. ‘Forgive me, my Lord First—’
‘Not “Lord”,’ I said. ‘Just “First Cantor” or “Falcio” or “Bastard Trattari” is fine.’
He stared at me aghast. ‘I would never call you—’ Finally that small part of his mind which would hopefully grow into a sense of humour one day told his mouth to smile. ‘Ah, yes. I’m sorry . . . Falcio . . .’ He said the word tentatively, waiting for an approving nod from me before continuing, ‘It’s just that, around here, people are rather sensitive about titles and such things. Yesterday I made the mistake of referring to the Margrave of Talthier’s lands as a Demesne instead of a March. I thought he was going to summon a scribe and write up the declaration of war then and there.’
‘The nobility don’t have to work for a living,’ I said. ‘They need a way to pass the time, and being offended is their favourite hobby. Just listen to their complaints with care and patience and when they’re done, nod your head sagely, make a great show of reading the biggest, oldest tome of court protocol you can find and then, after a few minutes, look up and very seriously tell them to go fuck themselves.’
His laugh was a little more relaxed this time, and a little more genuine. ‘I think, First Cantor, that I will need a great deal more fencing practise before I attempt your strategy.’
Against my better judgement I found myself rather liking this earnest, affable man. His was an unenviable role; he would never please anyone and it was unlikely to bring him much in the way of reward, worldly or otherwise. I wanted to help him, if I could. ‘Follow Valiana’s lead,’ I suggested. ‘She has a way of seeing the whole board and knowing which piece can be moved and which should be left alone.’
‘She’s amazing,’ Pastien said, and his eyes took on that faraway look that country boys get the first time they see the majesty of a castle off in the distance. ‘I’ve never met anyone so clever, so . . .’ He paused and said, ‘That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Valiana?’
He nodded. ‘I . . . I realise that you aren’t actually her father, but she choos
es to be called Valiana val Mond, so . . .’ He pulled at the front of his coat to straighten it. ‘Sir, would you grant me your permission to court Valiana?’
I stared at the boy: privileged, presumptuous, no doubt born to a wealthy family who had, however mistakenly, bought him his current position. And now it was entirely possible I was going to have to kill him. ‘Let me see if I have this straight: Saints are being murdered, half-crazed pilgrims are massing outside this very palace and the heir to the throne of Tristia was almost assassinated a few hours ago. But you want my permission to court Valiana?’
Pastien looked so stricken I might as well have clubbed him across the face with the brass tip of my walking stick. ‘I’m sorry . . . you’re right. It was foolish of me to—’
That small part of me that wasn’t a complete arse managed to gain temporary control of my mouth. ‘No, it’s . . .’ It’s what? People aren’t allowed to fall in love any more just because you screwed up your own life? ‘Look, Valiana is the Realm’s Protector of Tristia. She—’
‘Of course,’ Pastien interrupted, ‘her duties are too great for any—’
‘Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.’
‘Right, sorry.’
‘What I meant to say is that Valiana is quite possibly the wisest and most determined person I’ve ever known. It’s not for me to say whether you can or can’t court her. Just try to . . .’ No. I’m drawing the line at giving him advice. ‘You don’t need my permission to court her. You need hers.’
Pastien grinned, rather stupidly, I thought, then words came tumbling out of his mouth – a recitation of every usage of every word of positive or complimentary meaning ever devised. On the other hand, my ankle was killing me and I was distracted, so it’s possible he just announced his plans to murder us all in our sleep. After what felt like far too long, he gave a dignified bow and took his leave.
Why is life so much easier when people are trying to take it from you than when you’re forced to actually live it?
‘And thus is a troubled nation protected from its enemies,’ came a mocking voice from behind me and Jillard, Duke of Rijou, pushed himself away from the wall a few feet away. His supercilious drawl complemented the carefully groomed black hair, freshly oiled and slicked, and the gleaming red and gold Ducal robes.
‘Given that you have been one of this troubled nation’s most nefarious enemies, your Grace, I suppose you would know.’
Jillard gave me the slightest tilt of his head by way of acknowledgement. ‘Ah, but that was yesterday, Falcio. Today, we are the best of friends.’
I descended the staircase, careful not to trip over my unwieldy stick in the process. After all, I might need it to brain Jillard with. ‘What is it I can do for you, your Grace?’
He looked surprised at that, a perfectly false impression of a man with hurt feelings to go with his next words. ‘You? Do for me? Why, the thought of you doing something for me hadn’t even occurred to me. In fact it is I who’ve come to do you a favour.’
I paused, because my ankle hurt, but also for effect. ‘As you can see, your Grace, I’m tired, beaten and injured. I’m not sure I could survive the kind of favours you provide.’
Jillard nodded smugly, apparently feeling the time for pleasantries had passed. ‘I’m a valuable friend to have, Falcio, and you are a man especially in need of friends like me.’ He held up a hand and began counting off on his fingers. ‘You need to keep Aline alive. You need to defend Valiana from the Ducal Council. No doubt you’re even at this moment worried about the fate of your little Sister of Mercy – although now that Ethalia’s a Saint I imagine she must find your company less . . . appealing.’
I briefly considered bashing his head in with my stick and smiled. ‘Your Grace treads in dangerous waters.’
Jillard let his hands drop, unconcerned. ‘You know, I just realised something for the first time. Has it ever occurred to you that those you’re so driven to protect are always women?’
‘Perhaps it’s because men like you are so determined to destroy them, your Grace.’
‘No, I don’t think so, Falcio. That’s the lazy answer, the one that lets you pretend to be a man of justice.’ He cocked his head and stared at me. ‘My, my . . . is it possible that the death of your wife left you with such a terribly narrow sense of duty? I wonder, Falcio, when you see a man being beaten on the street, do you think, “A-ha! A victim of evil-doers! I must save him with elegance and flair!” or do you sigh and mutter to yourself, “Well, I suppose I should do something. The wretch might have a wife, after all, and I wouldn’t want her to be upset over his death.”’
‘No, your Grace,’ I replied wearily, ‘when I see someone being beaten and tormented, man, woman or child, I always think the same thing: here is Tristia, the land of my birth, a place where corruption and violence always have a home.’
‘Careful, Falcio. You almost sound as if you hate your own country.’
‘I do,’ I said, before I could stop myself, and realised, maybe for the first time, that it was true: I hated Tristia. I hated it as much as I hated Jillard and Trin and Patriana and all the others that would see it destroyed – or worse, in fact, because it was this wretched nation that had given them birth.
It was a dangerous and foolish thing to say to Jillard, however; he could have used the admission against me. Instead, he looked at me with an expression that almost approached sympathy. ‘Why then?’ he asked gently, ‘do you fight so hard to save it?’
I hesitated to answer, partly because I knew everything I revealed was another knife he could one day put in my back. But my thoughts turned to Aline, sitting there on her bed, trying so hard to be brave even though she was certain that one day soon she would die at the hands of an unseen enemy. ‘For her,’ I said.
‘Good,’ Jillard said, as though I had just conceded the argument. I suppose in a way I had. ‘The heir to the throne nearly died today at the hands of a madman, Falcio. She was ill-protected, and that is your fault. So let’s stop acting as if we’re equals and instead you can come with me so that I can teach you how to better serve her.’
He turned and began walking down the hall at a pace that made it clear he expected me to follow.
‘You do realise that most of the attempts on Aline’s life came from you, don’t you?’ I called out as I tried, to the great complaint of my ankle, to hurry down the rest of the stairs.
‘That was yesterday, Falcio,’ Jillard called back. ‘Times have changed. Best try to keep up.’
*
The Duke of Rijou led me all the way across the palace, past a pair of guards and down a set of stairs to a basement that, by my estimation, shouldn’t even have existed. ‘We’re actually inside the left side of the arch itself,’ he told me when he saw me looking around, calculating where we were. ‘The architecture is really rather fascinating.’
He led me into a long, poorly lit room with a flagged floor. The walls were bricks and mortar, but one long side was set with cabinets and shelves filled with small jars and boxes and books. On the other side the wall was lined with a dozen or so wooden drawers, each one about three feet square. I knew even before the smell hit me what was inside those drawers. ‘You brought me to the death house?’
Those who died in the palace were brought here for temporary storage before being assigned appropriate burial, depending on their house and rank.
Jillard sounded amused. ‘You look uncomfortable, Falcio. Are you quite all right?’
‘That would be my ankle, your Grace, and if you just made me walk all this way as part of some elaborate, theatrical threat, I promise you there will be one less empty coffin in that wall tonight.’
He didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking nervous. ‘Don’t be silly – why would I bother threatening you when all it does is make you smug and self-righteous?’ He went over to one of the shelves and retrieved a brass lantern that turned out to have its own sparking mechanism to light the wick. The room brightened, a
nd I could now see the tables at the far end of the room, and the body on the one closest.
‘It’s the assassin,’ I said, staring at the man who’d tried to murder my King’s daughter. His body was still clothed, though thankfully someone had taken off Harden’s greatcoat. It bothered me the way the corpse lay in such quiet repose. There was a tray of sharp metal instruments next to the table, and I picked up one of the knives between my thumb and forefinger, enjoying the blade’s balance and feeling a powerful compulsion to use it to cut the assassin into pieces, to remove whatever humanity was left in him, to make him suffer in death, if not in life.
‘A terrible thing, isn’t it?’ Jillard said, ‘Having to resist the righteous impulse to commit atrocities against one’s enemies.’ He sounded genuinely sympathetic.
‘What did you want to show me, your Grace?’
‘I want you to look at his face, then his hands and then his feet.’
‘You want me to what?’
The Duke just gestured towards the body, and then walked over and leaned against one of the cabinets. ‘Just tell me what you see.’
I’d already spent more than enough time in the throne room staring at the man’s face. The ruin he’d made of his mouth by biting off his own tongue was now obscenely accentuated by the swelling of his face. ‘He used to be better-looking,’ I said flippantly.
‘He did indeed,’ Jillard replied. ‘I must say, you were rather amateurish in the throne room, Falcio. If you’re going to interrogate a man, always make sure you have control of his jaw so he can’t bite off his own tongue. A truly committed spy will always do that first to keep from blurting out secrets under torture.’
‘He was bleeding out rather quickly. I’m not sure how much torture he needed to worry about.’
‘Not all men know how to resist torture, Falcio. That should be your first clue.’
Except that most assassins and spies are trained to deal with pain – so this man wasn’t a professional. He was fairly young, which didn’t tell me much. In life his face would have been smooth and clear, neither tanned nor overly pale. His hair was reasonably short and well kept.
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 20