Knight's Shadow

by Sebastien de Castell

As we walked the length of the courtyard and into the palace proper, I tried to make sense of this big Knight who appeared to hold no antipathy towards me or the Greatcoats. It’s not as if there was a law commanding that all Knights despise us – well, not one I’d seen with my own eyes, at any rate. And yet something was bothering me. ‘You ordered your men to await our arrival,’ I said as we walked up a wide set of stone stairs.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How did you know we’d arrive today?’

  ‘I didn’t. They’ve been waiting for you since we received word you were coming.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Six days.’

  I stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘So you told twenty Knights and twenty crossbowmen to stand out in the hot sun every day for a week and wait for three Greatcoats.’

  ‘Is there a problem, First Cantor? I also ordered them not to attack you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you ordered them not to attack us. But you knew they would, didn’t you? On a good day, with a purse of gold, a full cask of wine and after fucking Saint Laina-who-whores-for-Gods, a Knight would still find an excuse to attack a Greatcoat. These men—’

  Sir Shuran started walking again and we followed him down a long hallway past red and green tapestries. ‘Those men should have obeyed their orders. A Knight needs discipline above all things. But most of the time, following orders is easy for a Knight. We ask them to do things they expect. Things they even like to do.’

  ‘So you thought you’d take advantage of the opportunity to see just how well trained your men were.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Shuran said. ‘And now I’ve learned.’

  ‘And what if they’d managed to kill us before you intervened? Wouldn’t your Duke have found that a bit of a pain?’

  ‘First Cantor, my understanding is that you three are the best of King Paelis’ Greatcoats.’ He smiled at Dari and Valiana. ‘No offence to either of you; I’m sure you’re both stout fighters. But if the stories are to be believed, Falcio escaped a Ducal prison, tamed a Fey Horse, defeated Dashini assassins – something that’s supposed to be impossible – and slew the Duke of Rijou.’

  ‘Which is not nearly as impressive as the fact that he brought him back to life,’ Brasti said.

  ‘Quite so. Therefore, First Cantor, I can only conclude that if my men had killed you before I intervened, Duke Isault would have no use for you.’

  We reached the end of a hallway wide enough to drive a caravan through. The two guards standing outside the imposing entrance saluted Sir Shuran and opened the great double doors in tandem. Inside was a large room with a throne at the far end. Sir Shuran pointed towards it. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘The Duke will see you when he’s ready.’

  *

  The five of us spent the next hour standing like statues in the hereditary throne room of the Dukes of Aramor. ‘What are we doing here, Falcio?’ Brasti asked for the third time.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said for the fourth. The first time had been an unsuccessful attempt to pre-empt the others.

  The room was pretty much a perfect match for every other Ducal throne room I’ve ever found myself in over the years, which is to say that it looked much as you might expect a King’s throne room would. Tapestries hung from the walls showing scenes of various battles (one had to assume they didn’t bother with any in which Aramor wasn’t victorious). Swords and shields adorned the square columns spaced out along the length of the room, each one bearing the Ducal crest, but with enough individual details to delineate particular members of the line of Isault. There was just enough sparkle of silver and gold to reach for royal elegance without quite achieving it.

  It must have been hard for a man like Isault to live here, knowing Castle Aramor was only thirty miles away and was both grander than Isault’s palace and completely vacant since King Paelis had been deposed and killed. To be so close to the seat of Tristia’s power and yet unable to so much as walk through the front door without setting off a war with the other Dukes must have annoyed him no end.

  Eventually an old man entered through the same door we had, followed by four pages carrying heavy silver trays. Two tables were set, one on each side of the throne, each laden with food and wine, and then the servants left and the old man took a position by the door. I wondered whether the food was set there as a test to see if we’d eat it before the Duke arrived.

  ‘You realise that you ask Falcio that question quite frequently?’ Kest said.

  ‘What?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘“What are we doing here?” You ask him that question wherever we go.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘By now you should assume he doesn’t have an answer.’

  Thanks, Kest. I looked back at the door where we’d entered. Sir Shuran was standing there. He nodded to me. I nodded back. The old chamberlain stood next to him. He didn’t grace me with a look of any kind. I would have been offended, but I wasn’t entirely sure the old man was awake.

  ‘Just keep your tongues,’ I said to the others. ‘Shuran’s been more polite than we could’ve hoped for thus far and I don’t want to offend anyone.’

  ‘They tried to kill us, Falcio,’ Brasti said.

  ‘The Ducal Knights always try to kill us. At least these ones are polite. Nine duchies in the Kingdom – there has to be at least one where people respect us.’

  ‘Ah, there they are,’ came a deep, rumbling voice from behind the throne. ‘The whoresons of King Paelis, their tongues still brown with the dried crumbs of his defecation.’

  I had never met Isault before, so I watched closely as he entered the room from a door set in an alcove a few feet behind the throne. He was a man of average height and middle years with a substantial belly; his clothes, green and gold, made of silk, or something like it. They weren’t especially flattering. Neither was the wooden crown with gold inlay and a large green jewel in the centre. Only in Tristia do Dukes get to wear crowns.

  ‘Your Grace,’ I said, without bowing.

  ‘Shit-eater,’ he replied, and walked the two steps leading up to the throne. He sat down heavily. ‘There’s food if you want it. But eat from that table,’ he said, pointing to the one on our right. ‘The other one’s for me.’

  Yes, because you never run into trouble eating food that’s been prepared just for you when the other guy has his own food. ‘We’re fine, your Grace. We ate earlier.’

  The Duke reached down, nearly tipping from his throne. His crown fell from his head and clattered on the ground. He didn’t seem to care. Instead he grabbed a leg of meat that had once belonged to some type of large bird. ‘Chicken,’ he said, biting into it. I wasn’t clear who he was referring to. ‘I see you brought whores. Which one of them is for me?’

  Dariana said, ‘That would be me, your Grace.’

  Isault saw the disturbing grin on her face and turned to me. ‘Why do I get the feeling that this nasty little creature has things other than my pleasure in mind? Perhaps she would enjoy it more if I bound her hand and foot first?’

  Her expression changed instantly. ‘I would delight in your attempt, your Grace.’

  I put a hand on Dariana’s sword arm. Her eyes went from my hand to my face. She looked much more angrily at me than she had at the Duke.

  ‘Rude little thing. I see she wears a Greatcoat too, which explains it. The problem with you Greatcoats is . . . ah, hells. Beshard!’ he shouted to the old man at the back of the room. ‘What was I saying the problem with the Greatcoats was? You remember, the other day?’

  ‘They’re full of themselves, your Grace,’ the chamberlain shouted back.

  ‘Right! Quite right. Full of yourselves. That’s what you are.’ His Grace leaned towards us and whispered theatrically, ‘Beshard is a saggy old queer who dreams of buggering me in my sleep but he’s as loyal as a pit-terrier.’ Isault tossed the chicken back at the plate on the table. He missed. ‘Really, you should try attacking me. I swear old Beshard will get here before Shuran does.’

 
‘Duke Isault—’ I began.

  ‘Now you’re probably wondering why I summoned you here,’ he said.

  ‘Umm . . . you didn’t summon us, your Grace. We came on orders from the Tailor on behalf of Aline, daughter of—’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . Aline, daughter of somebody, ruler of something, heir to the throne of somewhere. It’s all shit, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t quite follow, your Grace.’

  ‘I said, it’s all shit.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace, I heard the words coming out of your mouth. I just don’t understand them.’

  Duke Isault reached over and picked up another piece of the bird – a wing this time. ‘Who cares who anyone is? You don’t know me – for all you know, I was born the son of a pig-herder and some washerwoman confused me with the real Duke’s son. For all you know the real Duke of Aramor is out there pouring swill into a trough right now.’

  Looking at Isault, his face already covered in no small amount of grease, I found the idea increasingly plausible.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Patents of nobility, Heart’s Trials, City Sages . . . it’s all of it a bunch of shit. But you’ve got those swords of yours, don’t you?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Now those matter. A hundred Greatcoats go and kick the arse of five hundred of Jillard’s men? That matters. Now, mind you, pull that trick more than a few times and you’ll find an army of thirty thousand in front of you. That’s what’s coming, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that, your Grace? I’m still somewhere back at the washerwoman.’

  He laughed. ‘Hah! That’s the one thing I like about you. You Greatcoats. You’ve got . . . damn it! What was it I was saying those Greatcoats have, Beshard?’

  ‘“Balls”, your Grace,’ Beshard shouted from the other end of the room. ‘You said they have . . . balls.’

  ‘Balls! Great big balls,’ Isault chortled, holding out both hands to give us a sense of both the estimated size and weight of the aforementioned balls. ‘You’re all half crazy to begin with, what with your “the law says this” and “the law says that”. Add a little war into the equation and soon enough you’ll all go rushing headlong into an army no matter what the size.’ He shook a finger at me. ‘Thirty thousand men, boy. That’s what the Dukes could field against you if they banded together. Thirty thousand. Think you and your hundred Greatcoats can take on an enemy of that size?’

  ‘No, your Grace. We couldn’t defeat thirty thousand.’ I thought about my next reply very carefully. ‘But we’ll never have to.’

  ‘Oh?’ Isault asked. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because you don’t trust each other,’ I said. ‘You all talk about wiping out this opponent or that, but in the end you all fear the expansion of any one Duke’s power more than almost anything else. Your changeling pig-farmer will sit on your throne long before the mythical army you’re describing ever sees the field.’

  Isault started laughing: a big, uproarious laugh. ‘Ha! Now that’s the other thing I like about Greatcoats! Remember Beshard, what was it I said the other day?’

  Beshard started to reply but I held up a hand. ‘Our sense of humour. Your Grace, forgive my impertinence, but could we get to the point?’

  The Duke stopped laughing. ‘The point? The point, which you’d know if you weren’t quite so full of yourself, without that big pair of balls on you and that sense of humour you hold up like a shield, the point is that the Dukes should never be able to unite.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Unless you scare them enough. We united once before, did we not, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I said, my voice cold.

  ‘Oooh, Shuran, you better come and bring that big sword of yours over here. The boy’s giving me a dirty look. Oh, my!’ Duke Isault started wiggling his fingers in the air.

  There wasn’t much point in responding, so I didn’t.

  Isault watched me for a moment and then said, ‘Good. You’re not as stupid as you look. Who designed those coats, anyway? You look like . . . well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, the King made all of us more scared of him than of each other and that was a mistake. He united us. We had no choice but to take him down. He had to go.’

  Again I felt a dark heat inside me begin to rise. Duke Isault stared into my eyes, then he got up off his throne and walked down the two steps to stand right in front of me. ‘Give me that look again, boy, and I’ll go and grab my own sword and give you the beating you deserve. Think I can’t do it?’

  ‘You’ll last two strikes,’ Kest said. ‘Falcio will let your first blow pass and then—’

  ‘The question was theoretical,’ Brasti whispered, so loudly that I imagine the Duke’s dead ancestors heard it.

  ‘I think you mean “rhetorical”,’ Kest replied.

  I held up my hand. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Smart,’ Isault said. ‘Now be smart again. If you want to put your little girl on the throne, you’d better find a way to keep us fighting each other and not you and your travelling troupe of madmen.’

  ‘You seem rather determined to see us find a way to beat the Dukes, considering you’re one of them, your Grace.’

  He walked over to the table on the right, the one he’d told us to eat from. He picked up another chicken leg. ‘Aye, I suppose I am.’

  ‘Might I ask why?’

  ‘I’ve some of my own reasons, but the most important one is that we need a King. Or a Queen. Or a fucking goat for all I care. Hells, even one of your little ladies here would do. But we need someone on the throne in Castle Aramor. We need King’s Laws.’ He held up a finger. ‘Not a lot – not as many as Paelis wanted. But some. Enough. A man’s got to be able to work his land and raise his family and not fear that some shit-eating lordling will come to call to rape his daughters and steal his money. The whole economy suffers that way, you know that don’t you?’

  I’d never thought of it in quite those terms, but . . . ‘Yes, your Grace, I do.’

  ‘And what happens if those barbarian piss-drinkers in Avares come over the mountains one day? They’ll tear us apart. Thirty thousand men, I told you, didn’t I? That’s what all the Dukes could field if we banded together. Well, boy, Avares could put a hundred thousand in the field if they wanted.’ He bit into his chicken.

  Isault’s words made sense. His assessment of the state of the country was true and though I couldn’t be sure about his estimate of the size of any potential Avares army, the numbers wouldn’t surprise me. On the other hand, I still remembered the day the Ducal army had come to Castle Aramor. The army wasn’t particularly large, but it had troops from every duchy, including Aramor. ‘So why didn’t you support the King when you had the chance? Why not take a stand?’

  ‘Take a stand?’ He threw the half-eaten leg at me and it bounced off my coat leaving a little trail of grease. ‘Don’t call me a coward, boy. I told you: your damned King Paelis was pushing too hard and too fast. That bitch Patriana had us all up in arms, claiming the Greatcoats were going to start taking over the duchies. He’d’ve gone after Duke Jillard in Rijou first – he’d’ve had to – and then guess who sits between the armpit of Hervor and the asshole of Rijou?’ Isault pointed a thumb at himself. ‘Aramor. That’s who.’

  ‘The King never sought to take over the duchies,’ I said. ‘Not one. There isn’t a single order ever issued nor any decree ever written. He just wanted to make the lives of the common folk more bearable.’

  Isault gave a snort. ‘Really? Is that the lie he told you?’

  I heard the sound of a Knight’s warsword being pulled from its sheath across the hall. ‘What—?’

  I felt Kest’s hand on my arm. ‘You drew first, Falcio,’ he said, his own right hand on the grip of his sword. I looked down to see it was true. I’d half-drawn my sword.

  ‘Forgive me, your Grace,’ I said. ‘I lost my head.’

  ‘Aye, boy, you nearly did. Look, I’m not saying the King was a bad man
. I’m saying that he too knew of the danger from Avares. He knew we have to become a more prosperous country if we ever hope to be able to field an army to defend Tristia from invaders.’ He put up a hand. ‘I can see from the look on your face that we’re not going to agree on this point, so let’s leave it be. Let Paelis be the common man’s hero in your eyes and the cunning and self-serving strategist in mine. Perhaps we’re both right. Either way, Tristia can’t be strong without a ruler on the throne.’

  ‘Then you’ll support Aline?’

  He let out a breath through his nose and looked me in the eyes. ‘Is she really the best you can do?’

  ‘I don’t understand, your Grace.’

  ‘A thirteen-year-old girl with no training in how to rule: that’s our best hope?’

  ‘She’s the King’s heir.’

  ‘And the others?’

  I kept my expression as neutral as I could as I tried to decide how to answer that question.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you don’t know if any of the others lived. Well then. Maybe we’ll both be surprised one day.’

  ‘But for now?’ I asked. ‘Will you support Aline as Queen of Tristia?’

  ‘Aye, I will.’

  The tightness in my chest released. Aramor wasn’t a particularly strong duchy but it had wealth and a good food supply and it was a damned good start: it would give others a reason to consider supporting us. We could—

  ‘For a price.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your Grace?’

  He picked up the plate of chicken from the table and carried it with him up to his throne. ‘Don’t play the fool with me, boy. The old hag didn’t send you here empty-handed, did she?’

  ‘No, your Grace. In exchange for your support, Aline is—’

  ‘The Tailor, you mean.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Aline doesn’t have shit to offer, boy. She’s a girl – she probably couldn’t read a tax levy even with two scribes and a large magnifying glass. The old woman is the one pulling the threads. We’re all just damned lucky she isn’t in the line of succession – I’d hate to see a world with that old hag on the throne.’

  ‘Aline,’ I said, emphasising her name, ‘is willing to set the Crown’s tax rates at ten per cent lower than they were when Paelis was King. She will also promise to keep the rates at that level for ten years.’