Knight's Shadow

by Sebastien de Castell

  ‘Well, I’m paying next to nothing right now, so that’s not much of an offer.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true, your Grace,’ Valiana said.

  ‘Eh?’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘So she talks, too? Delightful! What other things can she do with her mouth?’

  Valiana ignored the comment. ‘You pay substantial fees to the Ducal Concord each year.’

  ‘Still only half of what I paid to Paelis in taxes.’

  ‘Most of the taxes you paid to the crown went back into maintaining the roads and ensuring the trade that is so vital to your duchy’s economy. How much of the fees you pay now come back to Aramor, your Grace?’

  ‘I think I liked you better when you were quiet and I could imagine you—’

  ‘Imagine all you want,’ Valiana said. She smiled and, just for a moment, I saw the haughty noblewoman I’d first met. ‘Meanwhile other Dukes swallow lands in the north and look south towards the fields and herds of Aramor. What do you suppose they’re imagining, your Grace?’

  Isault looked singularly unhappy at the thought, and I took that as a good sign. ‘Aline will ensure your borders and trade routes are secure. She’ll also press the Lords Caravaner to lower the tariffs and exchange rates across the Spear and the Bow.’

  ‘Oh?’ Isault asked. ‘And how will she do that?’

  ‘She’ll use some of the tax levies to repair the roads and place guard-stations along the trade routes.’

  ‘Smart,’ Isault said, ‘and might even work. But it’s not enough.’

  ‘She’ll also agree to no new laws infringing on the duchies for a period of five years.’

  ‘So, just long enough for her to grow up and learn what the current laws are? Fine. Still not enough.’

  ‘Forgive me, your Grace. What else do you want?’

  Isault held out his plate of chicken at me. Not knowing what else to do, I took it and placed it on the table.

  ‘See that, boy?’ he asked. ‘Ten minutes ago you’d never have taken the plate from me. Now you can smell a deal and you’ll happily debase yourself.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Oh, I’m not criticising. In fact, I’m glad to see you’ve got a shred of sense in you. Because what I want, your little girl can’t offer me.’

  ‘What is it you want, then, your Grace?’

  He pointed a finger. ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You. The Greatcoats. You’re supposed to enforce the laws, aren’t you?’

  ‘We are, your Grace.’

  ‘And a Duke has the right to tax a man living in one of his villages, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He does, so long as the tax—’

  ‘“So long as the tax is neither so onerous it cannot be fairly paid nor the penalty so heavy, and hogswash and horseshit and so on and so forth . . .” Whatever. Point is, if I haven’t done any of that, they have to pay, right? Well, I want you and your boys there to go to the village of Carefal about three days from here on my western border.’

  ‘Your Grace, I don’t understand. Are you saying you need us to travel to this village because a man refuses to pay his taxes?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Isault said. ‘I want you to go there because the entire village of Carefal has refused to pay their taxes. You’re going to go there, do your little Greatcoats dance and sing some song about the law and make them do their duty.’

  ‘But don’t you have—?’ I looked back towards Shuran.

  ‘I’m not sending my Knights and soldiers to oppress some little village. I’ll either lose men or taxpayers. No, boy. You want to put your little girl on the throne? You want to be the law of the land? Fine. Go and prove to us you can administer the law for everyone.’

  ‘And if we do this?’

  Isault got off his throne, walked down the steps and held out his hand. ‘I’ll put the full weight of Aramor behind your little girl. We may not have a large standing army, but the Knights of Aramor are the deadliest in the country. I send Shuran out there to stand in front of Trin’s soldiers and I’ll bet you half of them defect on the spot.’

  ‘I . . .’ I looked at the others. Kest looked uninterested; his eyes were focused on the shields and swords in the room. Valiana looked disappointed in me and Dari smirked as if she’d just won an argument. Brasti simply looked troubled. I knew how he felt; I was too. But I couldn’t see I had much choice. There was no way we could ever put Aline on the throne without the support of at least some of the Dukes, and no Duke was more likely to help than Isault. ‘Very well. I’ll go to Carefal. If the people there are refusing to pay their taxes, as you say, then I’ll judge in your favour.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘Go then,’ the Duke said. ‘Shuran will go with you with some of his men to keep you from being killed if it comes down to it.’

  As the five of us walked towards the exit at the other end Isault called out to me, ‘That girl?’ I stopped and turned back to look at him. ‘I said I’d help you put her on the throne, and I will. But she’ll never last, Falcio. Thirteen years old? She’ll be dead a week after she’s crowned.’

  Chapter Ten

  The Troubadours

  There’s a hundred-mile stretch of road between the Ducal Palace of Aramor and the farming village of Carefal. It’s a nice two-day ride if you like listening to the sound of horses grunting up and down rolling hills, in between periodically slipping on the broken grey shale that peels off from the narrow mountains like the scabs from a leper’s arms.

  ‘Your roads could do with some repair, Sir Shuran,’ I called back to the Knight-Commander riding close behind me with his men. He had taken the time to introduce me to all nine of them, but since none had been willing to shake my hand I’d decided to reciprocate by instantly forgetting their names.

  ‘The state of the roads in Aramor isn’t exactly a Knight’s responsibility,’ Shuran replied. ‘Was it the practice of the Greatcoats to sweep the stairs and mop the floors at Castle Aramor?’

  ‘Give him time,’ Brasti said, leaving Kest’s side and riding up next to me. ‘I’m sure Falcio will get to it once he’s done doing the rest of the Dukes’ dirty work for them.’

  ‘Be quiet, Brasti,’ Kest said, more out of habit than from any evidence that his admonitions did any good.

  If you find a hundred miles on horseback fighting nausea passes too quickly, one solution is to bring along a man who, nominally at least, is supposed to be your subordinate, and have him carp at you like a fishwife the entire way.

  I’d hoped that Dariana might save me by subjecting us all to one of her elaborate polemics on the quality of Brasti’s manhood. Unfortunately, she and Valiana had chosen to ride behind us and all I heard from them were occasional spurts of laughter. It shouldn’t have bothered me that the two of them were forming a bond, but it did. Dari was an effective enough instructor for Valiana and she could even be affable in her own way (although that usually involved talk about maiming people), but beneath her Saints-may-care demeanour she was a blood-soaked killer who slaughtered her opponents without a second thought. My horse slipped on a piece of shale and nearly threw me off, reminding me to keep my eyes focused on the road ahead.

  One of Shuran’s men said something I didn’t quite catch, which was followed by a loud snort. It took me a moment to realise the Knights were still enjoying Brasti’s barb. Knights apparently derive a great deal of entertainment from listening to Greatcoats insult each other. I suppose watching us beat each other to death would amuse them too, and that was looking more and more like a distinct possibility.

  Shuran looked at me as if he were about to broach a sensitive subject, then finally spoke up. ‘I confess, First Cantor, that I’m not sure I understand your chain of command. If one of my Knights spoke to me in such a manner he would face a severe reprimand.’

  ‘I’ll get to it when I have time.’

  ‘Perhaps you could simply dock his pay?’ Shuran offered helpfully.

  Brasti’s laughter was so su
dden and high-pitched it bordered on giggling. ‘There has to be pay for someone to withhold it.’

  Shuran looked surprised. ‘You don’t pay your men?’

  ‘Do I look like a King?’ I said. ‘What, do you pay your men?’

  Shuran turned to the Knight who had laughed earlier. ‘Sir Elleth, who pays your weekly wage?’

  ‘You do, Knight-Commander.’

  ‘And should you be wounded, who pays the healer?’

  ‘You do, Knight-Commander.’

  ‘If you should fall in battle, who will pay the pension to your family?’

  ‘You will—’

  ‘Hold on a second,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t he work for the Duke?’

  ‘He serves the Duke,’ Shuran said. ‘We all do, but it is the responsibility of the Knight-Commander to pay his men.’ Shuran’s voice became noticeably pious. ‘It would sully the sacred bond of our service to the Duke should our Lord be required to pay us compensation. It would be like asking the Gods to give us a salary in exchange for living our lives well.’

  ‘Finally! A religious doctrine I could support,’ Brasti said. He held his horse’s reins between his hands as if in devout prayer. ‘Oh great Goddess Love, I shall walk the long and lonely roads of this country bringing your message of compassion to anyone who needs it. I will bow my head at every sign of beauty and sing your praises morning, midday and throughout the night.’ He turned to us with a wicked grin on his face. ‘In exchange I’d like a weekly salary of twelve silver stags with a bonus of two stags on market days. Also, a small cottage would be nice. Nothing too grand, you understand, just—’

  ‘Shut up, Brasti,’ Kest and I said together.

  The Knights were having a grand time of it and Brasti didn’t seem to mind. He liked being the centre of attention, even if that attention came from Ducal Knights, each and every one of whom he despised, just on principle.

  The idea of the commander paying his men from his own pocket struck me as odd. And expensive. ‘Wait a second. If you have to pay every Ducal Knight under your command, who pays you?’

  ‘The Duke, obviously,’ Brasti said.

  ‘But would that not sully the service he provides?’ Kest asked, finally taking an interest in the conversation. In addition to being the best swordsman in the world, Kest has an unnatural fascination with bureaucracy.

  ‘It would indeed blemish my service were I to be paid,’ Shuran said. ‘We are holy men, after all.’

  Brasti started to say something rude, but Kest interrupted him. ‘So am I right to assume that it does not diminish your service should the Duke, on occasion, grant you a gift in admiration for your noble character?’

  Shuran gave a small smile. ‘Such a gift would be an affirmation of my fulfilment of my God’s will.’

  ‘And should such gifts happen with some degree of regularity—?’

  ‘Well, I do try to be noble on a weekly basis.’ His smile widened. ‘I am known to be especially noble on Wednesdays.’

  I tried to calculate in my head what kind of gift was required to support the pay of more than a thousand Knights, but sums have never been my strong point. Eventually I gave up. ‘So you pay your men from the Duke’s “gifts”?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s part of it, but that would only cover the barest salary and expenses of my men.’

  ‘Then where does the rest come from?’

  Shuran signalled the others to slow and pulled back on his horse’s reins. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a matter that requires a lengthier conversation.’

  Valiana brought her horse up close to ours. ‘Why are we slowing down?’

  Shuran pointed to a two-storey wooden building about a hundred yards ahead, nearly hidden by trees. ‘There’s an inn up ahead. They don’t have much for rooms, but we can get food and drink and make camp nearby.’

  ‘I’ve travelled this way before with my mother . . .’ She shook her head as if trying to clear it. ‘I mean, with the erstwhile Duchess of Hervor.’ There was a note of sadness in her voice. It had only been a few months since Valiana had discovered in singularly unpleasant fashion that she wasn’t the daughter of a duchess. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’m fairly certain there’s a much better inn ten miles down the road that would have rooms for us.’

  ‘Forgive me, my Lady,’ Shuran said, ‘but it’s getting late and I prefer not to work the horses too hard. We’ll stay here tonight and make for the village of Carefal in the morning.’

  ‘If they haven’t got rooms for us, then what’s the point?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘There’ll be food, for us and the horses, and they’re known to have entertainment that I suspect you’ll appreciate.’

  *

  ‘And the Duke’s hammer came down,’ the storyteller said. Despite his youthful appearance, his voice was deep and resonant, as if Saint Anlas-who-remembers-the-world himself were channelling his words through the man. The light of the fire cast shadows about the large room, illuminating his handsome features as if he were some creature born of magic. Straight dark hair reached down to his chin, and he sported the short moustache and beard common amongst troubadours. They probably think it makes them look wise. Or dashing. Actually, I’m not sure why they do it. He wore a blue shirt under a black waistcoat that matched his trousers; I noted that they were patched in several places.

  The woman sitting on a stool next to him plucked at the strings of a short travelling guitar in accompaniment to his story. She also wore blue and black, but she was in every other way a contrast to him: sandy-brown hair framed a round, plain face, set atop a thick body that showed neither curves nor sensuality. But the music that came from her instrument, mostly simple arpeggios performed expertly, made the storyteller’s otherwise banal performance enthralling.

  ‘But did our hero fear the Duke’s power?’ the storyteller demanded of his audience. ‘Did he move even an inch as the Duke’s soldiers came for him?’

  The thirty or forty farmers and tradesmen who currently filled the tables of The Inn at the End of the World were far too rapt – by either the story or their drinks – to respond, and the troubadour took this as licence to continue, waving his hands through the smoke emanating from patrons’ pipes. ‘He feared not, friends, for his sword arm was strong, yes, but his voice . . . his words – they were mighty indeed. You might say he was something of a troubadour!’

  That got a laugh, mostly from Brasti.

  ‘What’ll you have, Trattari?’ the barman asked, quietly, so as not to disturb the story being told at the other end of the common room. ‘We’ve got beer at three black pennies per, or a decent wine for five. We’ve got some beef for dinner at only one silver steer.’

  I let the ‘Trattari’ slide. Half the people in the countryside don’t even know that it means tatter-cloak, or that it’s an insult. Or maybe they just don’t care.

  ‘We don’t get beef around here so often,’ the barman went on, leaning in as if he were letting us in on the deal of the century. ‘It’s nigh as rare as mutton.’

  ‘Possibly because we’re “at the End of the World”?’ Kest asked.

  ‘Uh, well, aye, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re not actually at the end of the world,’ Brasti said. ‘I mean, it’s certainly not far from the south, but it’s not the end of the world by any means. And if it was, pretty much every inn from Baern to Pertine would have to be called “The Inn at the End of the World”.’ Brasti looked around. ‘Come to think of it, this isn’t actually an inn so much as a tavern, is it?’

  ‘It’s got a room,’ the barman said tersely. ‘That makes it an inn.’

  ‘Where’s the room?’ Brasti asked.

  He pointed outside. ‘Over there. It’s got a bed ’n’ everything.’

  ‘Isn’t that a barn?’ Kest asked.

  ‘There’s no horses in it,’ the barman replied.

  ‘Yes, but still, it’s not actually—’

  ‘Look, Trattari,’ the barman said, ‘if you and your little company don’t want
a room, you don’t need to pay for a room. If you want to call this a tavern instead of an inn, you’re welcome to do so. So what’ll the three of you have? The beer at five pennies per, the wine for seven, or the beef for a silver and three pennies?’

  ‘Wait a second, you said—’

  ‘Those were inn rates. These are tavern rates. Happy?’

  I reached into one of my pockets for five silvers, feeling for the ones with the silver steer of Aramor embossed on them. I put them on the bar one by one. ‘We’ll have five beef dinners,’ I said, ‘and you’ll throw in the five beers.’

  ‘What? That’s not near enough. What’re you doin’, robbing me now, Trattari?’

  I pointed to some of the shabby-looking patrons at the tables eating their dinners. ‘Those men didn’t come in here with silver and they seem to be eating just fine, and drinking too. Neither beef nor mutton is rare in these parts, perhaps because Aramor is known for its livestock,’ I said, pointing a finger at the steer imprinted on the silver coin. ‘And finally, if the next phrase out of your mouth includes the word “Trattari” I’ll pay you your extra black pennies but you’ll have to shit them out in the morning, along with your front teeth, to count them.’

  The barman looked less aghast than annoyed. ‘Fine. Fine. Five dinners for five silvers.’

  ‘And ten beers,’ Brasti reminded him.

  ‘Aye, and five beers. I’ll pour them into ten cups if it pleases you.’ As he turned away from us, the barman muttered, ‘You might be Greatcoats, but you’re no Falsios, I’ll tell you that much for free.’

  Falsios?

  Brasti pulled me by the shoulder towards the last empty table in the common room, where the girls were waiting for us. It was in the far corner, away from most of the other patrons and deep in the shadows, which suited us fine. Shuran had taken food from the inn (which the Knights, apparently, weren’t expected to pay for) and gone back to the camp where his men were setting up for the night. Apparently the entertainment here wasn’t all that interesting to them.