‘First Cantor,’ Pastien said, grabbing my shoulder earnestly. ‘I’m so glad to find you here.’
I didn’t share the sentiment. ‘My Lord,’ I said, and sidestepped him before pushing past his men.
‘Falcio, please.’
People rarely say please to me. I stopped and turned.
‘I . . .’ Pastien stumbled over his own tongue for a few seconds, then he managed, ‘How is the Realm’s Protector?’
I suppressed the urge to give him directions to the diplomatic chamber and tell him to ask her himself. If you did, my Lord, you’d find her trapped in an iron mask, unable to see or speak. I might have said as much, but I was keeping an eye on Quentis Maren. ‘The Realm’s Protector is well, my Lord,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be sure to tell her you asked.’
Pastien nodded, and it was as if his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. ‘In the chamber, when it happened, I was . . . unhelpful.’ He was taller than me, and yet it felt like he were gazing up at me like a scolded puppy. ‘It’s just that . . . Valiana is so strong, so commanding . . .’
He let the words hang there, but I didn’t reply. If you’re looking for absolution, pray to a Saint. If you can find any left.
After a few seconds, Pastien straightened himself. ‘I realise this is a difficult time, First Cantor, but I wish to ask a favour of you.’
A favour. Absurdly, I found myself glancing at the guardsmen’s swords and the holster at Quentis’ right side where he kept his wheellock pistol. It’ll be tricky, I thought, but I swear, if Pastien asks my permission to court Valiana again I’m going to kill him. ‘How can I be of service, my Lord?’
‘A delegation of clerics from around the Duchy is arriving in the morning.’ He glanced back briefly at Quentis Maren. ‘I believe they are coming to demand that I present to them my plan for protecting our churches.’
‘How do you plan to protect them?’ I asked.
He looked distinctly uncomfortable at the question. ‘We have few soldiers left in Luth, I’m afraid. Most of our Knights were part of Shuran’s secret army and those who weren’t . . . well, Knights prefer to serve Ducal lines, you understand, not . . . temporary figures such as I. Valiana sent for a contingent from Aramor, and it should arrive in two days.’
‘Then it appears your problem is solved,’ I said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’
‘My nobles want me to step down,’ Pastien said, glancing at the men and women who walked past us, and they, in turn, looked upon their current ruler with expressions that ranged from mild disapproval to outright disdain. ‘They think I’m weak, ineffective,’ he went on. ‘In truth, I think it was only seeing Valiana standing beside me, supporting me, that kept them from trying to push me out sooner.’
That last note of self-pity in his voice set me on edge. What had Valiana seen in this overdressed mop of a man? ‘I’m afraid the Realm’s Protector is indisposed, my Lord. You’ll have to find some other prop to lean on tomorrow.’
The guardsmen looked as if they were very keen to get me into a dark room and discuss my attitude. Quentis Maren just looked bored.
‘I deserved that,’ Pastien said, without any equivocation, and it made me hate him just a tiny bit less. When he spoke again there was a little more steel in his voice. ‘The problem, First Cantor, is that there are farmers in my Duchy who need help to survive this poor growing season. We have roads that caravans can’t travel because they are in such disrepair; those that aren’t are patrolled by brigands who consider any traveller their lawful prey.’ The young man’s eyes caught mine. ‘I know I’m not very good at this, Falcio, but if I’m forced out, who is going to look out for my people?’
My mind turned back to the walk up the staircase with Valiana two days ago, the smile on her face as she’d said, ‘He’s very decent, I think. He keeps trying to find ways to keep the Duchy stable.’
I sighed. ‘What can I do to help, my Lord?’
‘If you could persuade Aline . . . I mean, the heir . . . if she were to stand with me when we greet the delegation tomorrow, show her confidence in me, then the clerics might be predisposed to deal with me directly. My nobles are religious men and I believe the support of the clerics would go a long way to secure my position, for a little while at least.’
‘You think a fourteen-year-old girl is going to impress a group of crotchety old priests?’
That actually took him aback, but he rallied quickly. ‘She has a keen intellect, First Cantor. Her knowledge of the political and economic landscape of the country is excellent, and Valiana has consulted with her on every decision.’
This was news to me. I knew Valiana had been training Aline, preparing her to one day take the throne, but somehow I always envisioned that day being a long way away. This, I thought, this right here is why I’m so bad at politics. I keep seeing the world as it was and not as it is.
‘Besides,’ Pastien went on, ‘Aline is King Paelis’ child, heir to the throne of Tristia. The clerics will respect that above all else.’
I found myself moved by the way he spoke, such an odd combination of faith in Aline and doubt in himself. I might have relented then, had I not seen his guardsmen’s eyes turn suddenly to the palace entrance and heard shouts coming from the courtyard. I followed the sounds, but couldn’t see past the crowds of gawking nobles standing behind their personal guards and retainers. I pushed past them, careful to keep track of anyone nearby holding a weapon who might think this an opportune time to kill a Greatcoat, but no one was paying any attention to me.
When I finally got close to the open doors, I saw the sea of dirty white-robed pilgrims rushing about madly, all tripping over each other as they tried to escape the enclosed space; some even ran onto the spears of the guardsmen keeping them from entering the castle. Billows of thick grey fog rose up from the ground in the centre of the courtyard, expanding so rapidly it was as if it were chasing the fleeing pilgrims.
Nightmist, I thought crossly. Will I never be rid of fucking magic in my life?
Suddenly, in the midst of the swirling grey chaos, a flash of silver rose up and then down just as quickly, and a bright red splatter painted itself briefly against the grey canvas as the shouts turned to screams. For a brief moment, the sun split the fog and I saw a single man, black-haired and clothed in chainmail, swinging a two-handed warsword like a scythe. His blade whirled in the air, and again blood followed in its wake.
‘Gods, what’s happening?’ Pastien asked, and I turned to answer but already his guards were pulling him back to safety.
The screams rose in volume and when I looked back outside, I caught a glimpse of the attacker’s face: he was grinning at me with unbridled excitement, his eyes wet with tears of joy as his blade came down again and again, killing the panicked men and women caught inside the courtyard and obscured by the nightmist. None of the pilgrims, not one of them, tried to fight back; they just trampled each other to death trying to escape.
A fox among the chickens, I thought, a knot twisting my stomach. Look how easily he feeds.
The last of the guards backed into the palace as others began closing the heavy doors. I grabbed one of them by the collar. ‘What in hells are you doing? Those people—’
The man shook me off. ‘Have you seen what’s out there? We’re not damned well going out there to be cut down by that animal or trampled over by the mob!’
I shouted for Pastien, telling him to order his soldiers to put a stop to the butchering outside, but his men had already hustled him away to safety. Valiana would have been the first to go out there.
I turned back to the doors, the gap between them shrinking, now five feet, then four feet . . . three.
Saint Marta-who-shakes-the-lion, I swore silently, if you happen to still be alive, now would be a fine time to lend me a little strength.
I leaped through the gap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Fox and the Chickens
Of the many things I hate about nightmist, foremost i
s the way it plays with sound. The pilgrims’ screams echoed as if they were coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Their pitch sometimes lowered into howls or rose into squeals that threatened to make my ears bleed. It was maddening and terrifying all at once. Had the damned pilgrims simply tried running towards their attacker rather than away, they might have stampeded over him. Tristian courage at work, I thought bitterly. It’s a miracle we don’t get invaded every second Thursday.
It was an ignoble thought, and unfair. These men and women were tired, cold from sleeping outside, hungry from lack of food, and the nightmist created its own kind of chaos that would disorient and confuse even trained soldiers.
I drew both my rapiers, taking reassurance from the solidity of their leather-bound grips. No more cane-fighting for me.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked a voice close behind me, and I was surprised to find Quentis Maren at my shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’ he added. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘Just a little curious which side you’re on.’ I started trying to push through the crowd in front of us.
‘I’ve told you before, Falcio,’ the Inquisitor said, shoving aside a man who was blocking our way, ‘I serve the Gods.’
‘Yeah?’ I pointed towards the grey mist in front of us, and the figure of the God’s Needle some forty feet away, his thick chainmail catching the occasional stray beam of sunlight, his laughter coming at us in waves as his blade sliced into defenceless flesh and bone. ‘So does he, apparently.’
The Inquisitor drew his twin-barrelled wheellock pistol in one hand and hefted his mace in the other. ‘Not any God I know.’
The two of us were buffeted around by the crowd as people rushed around searching for a nonexistent safe place.
Quentis lifted his pistol in the air, then said, ‘I can’t get a clean shot.’
I glanced at the weapon. ‘Can that thing go through chainmail?’
‘On a good day, up close. Not from this distance.’
More screams. More blood. And still we couldn’t get through.
‘Then shoot him in the head, damn it!’
‘I can’t – the weapon’s not accurate at this distance, and especially not in this fog. I’ll just end up hitting one of the pilgrims.’
‘Come one, come all!’ shouted the madman in the centre of the courtyard. ‘Don’t be shy, little piggies!’ He swung his sword in a blistering horizontal arc, taking a man’s head clean off. ‘You’ve so little blood amongst you, and I am a thirsty man!’
Everything he did was helping to worsen the panic in the crowd. They were out of their minds with fear now, running wildly, getting in each other’s way and, worse, ours. I kept having to drop the points of my rapiers just to avoid skewering people running into me.
‘Here,’ Quentis said, ‘let’s try this.’ He raised his pistol in the air and squeezed the trigger, and the air shattered around us as the mist turned the crack of the weapon into something closer to the explosion from a cannon.
Men and women scattered and the path before us finally cleared enough to force a way through.
‘Not bad,’ I conceded.
‘That gives me one shot for our friend.’
‘Can’t you reload?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I just need two minutes or so uninterrupted with no one jostling me. How likely do you think I am to get that?’
Brasti will be pleased to hear pistols have a weakness. I glanced ahead and could now see the God’s Needle more clearly. He was, I reminded myself, just a normal man. Just very, very big, and wearing the thickest chainmail I’ve ever seen, and in all likelihood he’s much stronger than me and completely unable to feel pain or exhaustion.
‘Don’t miss,’ I said, and started off at a run for our enemy.
The Needle kicked the body of a dying woman off the end of his blade and I could see he was slowing now – but not from any tiredness, just because there were now so many corpses in his way. How many had he killed already, fifteen? Twenty? His grin widened when he saw us. ‘Trattari and Cogneri,’ he said. ‘What an odd pair of birds have fluttered inside my little cage.’ He took a step towards us.
‘Now would be an excellent time to shoot,’ I said.
Quentis moved in front of me, raised his pistol and tried to fire the second barrel, but nothing happened. He quickly twisted a cog on the side of the weapon and squeezed the trigger again. Silence. ‘It won’t spark,’ he said.
‘Nightmist,’ the God’s Needle explained pleasantly, standing there as if he were politely giving us our chance. ‘Makes things rather wet.’
I found myself suddenly acutely aware of the dampness glistening all around us, of the strands of hair sticking to my forehead. ‘Any chance you can dry that thing out?’ I asked Quentis.
The Inquisitor holstered the weapon. ‘You really don’t know anything about firearms, do you?’ He hefted his mace and began walking in a slow, careful arc as he attempted to flank our enemy. His mace wouldn’t have the reach of our opponent’s two-handed sword, which meant I was going to have to provide a distraction if Quentis were to make good use of it.
‘Have you tasted fear, little bird?’ the God’s Needle asked, swinging his warsword over his head with incredible speed before bringing it crashing down against the back of a disoriented man trying to flee, just like a forester felling a tree. ‘Do you taste it now?’
‘You know, I would,’ I said casually as I raised my blades into a forward guard to give me the greatest reach, ‘but there are so many of you God’s . . . is it “God’s Pins”? I forget. Anyway, I’m actually having trouble keeping track of the ones I’ve killed, so I thought perhaps I should name you after flowers. How would you like to be called “Dandelion”?’
The man’s grin was intact, but his eyes narrowed. He reached down to the ground and lifted a dying man up by his throat. ‘I have drunk the blood of Saint Ebron-who-steals-breath,’ he said, and squeezed, almost effortlessly snapping the man’s neck. ‘Three nights ago I drank the blood of Saint Forza-who-strikes-a-blow,’ he went on, flipping his sword in his hands to hold it by the end of the blade and swinging it like a hammer behind him where the crossbar crushed the skull of another pilgrim. ‘And last night’ – he kissed the fingertips of his left hand like a patron praising his meal – ‘I tasted the blood of Saint Marta-who-shakes-the-lion.’
I suppose it’s doubtful that my last prayer was heard, then.
Without warning, the God’s Needle flipped his weapon in the air again, grabbing it by the hilt and then swinging the blade out behind him. Quentis Maren’s head would have come separated from his shoulders had he not ducked down low. Dandelion had apparently expected that, though, and he kicked the Inquisitor in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. The nightmist made echoes of Quentis’ hoarse gasps for breath as he scrambled backwards, trying desperately to stay out of range. Dandelion, looking only mildly interested, stamped towards him and raised his heel, preparing to crush Quentis underneath.
A thought came to me unbidden. Two seconds: just hesitate for one moment longer and the leader of the Inquisitors will die, leaving us one less problem to deal with. One less person who could threaten the people I care about.
I took two steps into a run and jumped as high as I could. I’m absolutely going to regret this later, I thought as I kicked out with both feet against Dandelion’s ribs and he went toppling sideways. He fell onto one of the dead bodies on the ground – a softer landing than the one I got, for my shoulders hit the courtyard stones, sending a shockwave lancing down my arm.
Quentis managed to get his feet under him and swung his mace at the madman’s head, but Dandelion got his arm up in time and blocked the blow. The thick chainmail of his sleeve denied us even a broken bone that might have slowed him down.
If Sedge and Beltran had been wearing mail like that, I realised, more than a little horrified, I’d be dead right now.
Dandelion reached out a hand and grabbed Quentis by the ankle,
yanking him off-balance and sending him crashing to the ground again.
This isn’t working. He’s going to outlast us.
I got myself off the ground and thrust my right rapier as hard as I could into what looked like a weaker point in Dandelion’s chainmail, and by some miracle I managed to break through one of the links and the blade went into his side. He turned and looked down as if he’d just been bitten by an insect. Without even a trace of fear, he raised his hand in the air and closed it into a fist. Hells, I realised, he’s going to smash my blade with his bare hand.
I withdrew the blade and immediately thrust for his eye – a tricky target on the best of days – and I was right; the Needle was too quick, weaving to the side and sweeping his heavy sword up diagonally. I lunged off my right leg, dropping my arm to my side and felt the gust of wind as Dandelion’s sword passed by. I used the opening to stab him in the thigh, but once again, it made not the slightest difference.
Quentis swung his mace with both hands and smashed it into Dandelion’s back. The chain links clattered under the blow, several tiny pieces of twisted metal falling to the ground – but Dandelion paid it no heed, instead just backhanding Quentis across the face with stunning force. The Inquisitor’s mace fell to the ground as he struggled to stay standing.
We can’t keep fighting this lunatic as if he were a normal man. He doesn’t care about being hurt.
I brought my left rapier down in a diagonal slash and drew a line of blood across Dandelion’s face, and the distraction was enough to make him focus his attention on me. ‘Quentis,’ I said, ‘we can’t win like this. Give me the bastard’s neck.’
Without waiting for a reply, I stepped in close enough for the Needle to reach me with his warsword, and exactly as I’d anticipated, he raised the weapon high in the air. If that blade comes down, there are going to be two Falcios for the Gods to curse. Quentis, bless his black Inquisitor’s heart, leapt up behind the big man and reached around his chest, grabbing the collar of the chainmail shirt and yanking it down. It moved just enough to reveal an inch of our enemy’s throat, and even though Dandelion drove an elbow back into Quentis’ ribs, the Inquisitor hung on for dear life. In that gap of time and space he gave me, I lunged and drove both my rapiers into the centre of our enemy’s throat. The tips pierced flesh and then ground past bone to come out the other side.
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 28