Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘They’re going to attack – protect your Lords!’ one of the Knights shouted.

  I could have kissed him.

  ‘It’s a trick, you fools!’ Lady Cestina screamed, but her warning was too late: the Knights, trusting each other more than petty guardsmen, had formed up into a solid line, while the guards had split into two separate groups, half ready to fend off the Knights while the rest came at us. We were still outnumbered, of course, but with the guardsmen all in disarray, their tactics were useless – and the noble guests were helpfully shouting incoherent orders at their Knights and at each other while reaching for their own highly decorative weapons as they tried in vain to make sense of who was actually fighting whom.

  ‘Interesting,’ Kest noted absently, taking a short step to the left as one of the guards made a thrust for his chest. As the man overextended, Kest grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him off-balance, using his own momentum to send him tumbling over the railing and into the water. ‘Was the bit with the Knights part of your plan all along?’

  ‘Of course,’ I lied.

  Chalmers ducked under an opponent’s wide slash. ‘So it’s true what people say about the great Falcio val Mond.’

  ‘What do they say?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘That he talks people to death.’ She rose up and drove the heel of her boot into the knee of her attacker and the man obligingly screamed, but the slightly awkward move left her unprepared when, despite the crack of his kneecap, the man managed a glancing slash across her right arm. The thin leather parted under the force of the blow, leaving a line of blood in its place.

  ‘You need a better coat,’ I said, piercing the man’s good leg and kicking him off the point, sending him falling backwards.

  ‘This was the best I could afford.’

  ‘Then you should stop crashing weddings,’ Brasti suggested, slashing his sword across the chest of one of the guardsmen. The cut didn’t get through the leather cuirass but it did make the man stumble, and Brasti kicked him hard enough in the belly to send him sprawling to the deck. ‘I quite like this barge, though. Do you suppose the Margrave would consider letting me borrow it once he’s done with it? I was thinking of asking a certain former assassin to marry me.’

  ‘You want to propose? To Darriana?’

  The idea sent such a chill through me that I nearly got eviscerated by an axe. I countered with a thrust to the man’s hand and got lucky; his weapon went crashing to the deck while he fled out of the way, leaving someone else to come forward and try to finish the job he’d started.

  Even Kest seemed perturbed by Brasti’s sudden revelation. ‘You do realise that, other than Trin, Darriana is quite possibly the deadliest woman alive?’

  ‘I can’t very well spend the rest of my life letting the two of you try to get me killed, can I?’ Brasti replied. ‘Time I let someone else have a go.’

  I knew their strange relationship – she a former assassin with a jealous streak and he congenitally incapable of fidelity – had somehow continued despite the natural order of the universe, but I had no idea Brasti might ever seriously consider matrimony – to anyone.

  ‘Will you both please shut up?’ Chalmers asked, slicing open a guardsman’s hand with the broken end of her cutlass. ‘Some of us would rather not die today if we can avoid it.’

  The guard howled in pain, but he cleverly grabbed at Chalmer’s face, and smeared the blood over her eyes to blind her as he cocked his other fist. Good move. Almost a shame Brasti had to drive his shoulder into the man’s side, pushing him over the railing and into the water.

  ‘If living matters to you then I’d suggest you stop running around pretending to be a Greatcoat,’ Brasti told her.

  ‘I’m just as much a Greatcoat as you are,’ she countered. ‘The King named me so himself, on his last day.’

  That took me aback. Was this a lie, or yet one more decision King Paelis had made without telling me? I spared Chalmers a glance. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but I still couldn’t quite place her. Also, right now I had other concerns: the Knights and their Lords had formed their own little troop and were looming over the bodies of several dead or wounded guardsmen. By now most of them had figured out my ruse, but it was too late; only four of Evidalle’s guardsmen remained standing. Seeing the odds had turned against them, they dropped their weapons and sank to their knees next to their fallen comrades.

  ‘Stand up, damn you!’ the Margrave screamed, but no one moved, which was entirely sensible. Nobody ever wants to be the last person to die right before the battle ends.

  Shattering the silence, Brasti slapped a hand on his thigh. ‘Now I remember you! Chalmers – the annoying little girl who used to hang around the King’s cook – what was her name? Zagdana?’ He turned to Kest. ‘You know what? This is proof the Gods do still exist. I may have finally found someone who knows how to cook a damned chicken.’

  ‘Her name was Zagdunsky and she was the Royal Quartermaster, you arse,’ Chalmers said to Brasti.

  The Knights, none of whom appeared to be hurt, looked warily at us from across the pile of dead and injured guardsmen. One or two shuffled, as if they might be inclined to come for us, but I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, gentlemen. Not your fight.’

  ‘I remember you now as well,’ Kest said to Chalmers. ‘Though I seem to recall you looked quite different then.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Brasti said, pointing an accusing finger. ‘You were a tubby little thing, weren’t you?’ He looked her up and down appraisingly. ‘My, my, haven’t you grown up nicely . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you just announce your intention to propose to Darriana?’ Kest asked.

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t help it: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘That’s not what that sentence means.’

  ‘Is there any reason I can’t kill him?’ Chalmers asked me.

  ‘Wait until we’re sure the fight’s over.’ I called out to the Knights, ‘The fight is finished, isn’t it, gentlemen?’

  A few of them glanced over their shoulders at the nobles they served, none of whom looked eager to take the chance that their man would fall to our blades and leave them vulnerable.

  ‘This is treason!’ Evidalle bellowed without the slightest trace of irony as he pounded his non-bleeding fist against the railing. ‘I will have justice for this!’

  ‘Well, well,’ Brasti said to me. ‘For once your plan hasn’t got us into worse trouble than we started with.’

  ‘Don’t speak so soon,’ Kest said, and pointed past the barge’s railing to the open waters beyond. In all the chaos of the battle none of us had noticed the ship rounding the bend in the river: a galleon was coming up fast behind us, flying a banner bearing the image of an eagle with talons extended over a field of blue and white.

  ‘Which one’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe that the eagle is the symbol of the Margrave of Val Iramont,’ Kest replied.

  As the galleon gradually drew closer, a slender man with a slight stoop and thinning grey hair approached the side. He was in his late fifties, I estimated. He ignored us and looked to the other end of the barge, where Evidalle was kneeling with his bride. ‘Margrave Evidalle,’ the man called out courteously, ‘my profound apologies for arriving late to your blessed day. We had some rather inclement conditions navigating the Red Bay and then . . . well, never mind now.’ He glanced at the rest of us: three – four – Greatcoats, the frantic guests, and finally the dead guardsmen. ‘I appear to have missed the festivities . . .’

  Evidalle rose to his feet and minding his bandaged hand, adjusted his coat before making his way to the side of the barge and greeting the newcomers with as much grace as his dishevelled condition would allow. ‘Margrave Rhetan, how wonderful to see you, regardless of the hour.’ Then, in a rather impertinent stretching of the truth, he added, ‘As it
happens, we delayed the ceremony until your arrival.’

  Margrave Rhetan gave his own perfunctory bow and motioned for his men to extend a narrow boarding bridge from the deck of his galleon down to the wedding barge. Without showing a trace of concern over the blood, fallen guardsmen, and rather large numbers of drawn weapons, he stepped across and said, ‘I hope there’s food left. My men haven’t eaten.’

  I looked past him to see the rows of soldiers, weapons at their sides, preparing to come across. I guessed there were around a hundred.

  ‘What now?’ Chalmers asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t plan on another Margrave showing up with his own private army.’

  ‘You know all your plans are terrible, don’t you?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Kest countered. ‘A number of Falcio’s schemes have proven to be ingenious.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mind you, this isn’t one of them.’

  ‘Well,’ Brasti said, retrieving his bow from the deck and nocking an arrow to the string, ‘maybe we’ll be lucky for once; maybe Margraves Evidalle and Rhetan don’t like each other very much.’

  Evidalle caught my eye and it became clear to me that whatever numbing salves the healers had given him to ease the pain of his wounded hand had kicked in because he could barely contain his laughter.

  As Margrave Rhetan stepped onto the deck of the wedding barge, Evidalle embraced him and said, ‘It really is wonderful to see you, Uncle.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Margrave of Val Iramont

  When someone holds your life in their hands, they become remarkably impressive to behold.

  At first glance, Rhetan might easily have been mistaken for a peasant farmer or a village shoemaker. He had the lined, leathery skin that comes from age and too much sun; his posture was that of a man whose fight with time was being lost by degrees. His hair was thin and mostly white, only a few stubborn strands of black remaining, and cropped close to his head. Stripped of his galleon and his hundred-odd soldiers, Rhetan would have been an altogether unimposing figure.

  Of course, he did have a galleon, and he did have an army.

  A dozen of his men accompanied him down to the wedding barge while the rest remained behind, leaning up against the railings of their ship and making sure we all got a good look at their assortment of crossbows and more than a few pistols.

  Rhetan’s men wore leather armour studded with steel rings sewn onto the surface, making it durable without adding weight or bulk: an efficient choice – perhaps less grand than the plate worn by the Knights, but better suited to the dangers of fighting aboard ship. More importantly, each man’s cuirass was properly sized to his chest and torso. Rhetan clearly took care of his people, and they, in turn, looked upon him without the disdain that soldiers so often held for their Lords.

  It was the soldiers’ obvious respect for Rhetan that transformed his appearance in my eyes.

  The wrinkles that might otherwise have suggested a doddering old man now looked to me as the mark of keen intellect and long study. His slightly stooped posture wasn’t the sign of failing muscles exhausted by a long voyage; it was evidence of a man fully at ease in the world. The lack of notice he gave to potential threats all around him didn’t signify a deficit of observation but rather served to illustrate a single, incontestable fact: Rhetan was in control.

  ‘Breathe, everyone,’ he said. ‘You’ll live longer.’

  The entire company – wedding guests, Knights, guards, and even Margrave Evidalle – watched as Rhetan wandered over to the cooking spits. He picked up a dinner knife from a nearby table and cut a piece of pork off the carcase. ‘The meat’s overdone, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Try the chicken,’ Brasti suggested. I elbowed him in the ribs.

  From behind the spits I could hear the quavering sound of the cook’s voice. ‘Forgive me, your Lordship . . . I . . . there was so much—’

  ‘Relax,’ Rhetan said, still chewing on his piece of pork, ‘if I killed every chef who overcooked my dinner there wouldn’t be a man left in Tristia who knew how to light a fire.’ A smattering of nervous laughter rose up, but Rhetan cut it off simply by ignoring it. He turned to survey the crowd. ‘You’re scared. That’s fine. Use it to make yourselves smart. Keep your mouths shut until you have something useful to say and you might just survive the afternoon.’

  Such a bold statement would normally have elicited a blistering response from the noble guests, several of whom were Viscounts and Viscountesses of large condates and thus of equal rank to the Margrave. These men and women, who normally took poorly to being told to shut up, kept remarkably silent.

  In fact, no one moved so much as a muscle – except for one of Rhetan’s own soldiers, a black-haired, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, who came forward to kneel before Rhetan. ‘Margrave? The men await your orders.’

  ‘The men can relax, too, Pheras.’ He wagged a finger in mock reprimand. ‘Patience. You can’t have too much patience.’

  ‘Patience ruined the meat,’ Brasti said.

  I whispered in his ear, ‘It’s rather important that you stop talking now.’

  ‘Better overdone and a little chewy than so raw it makes you sick,’ Rhetan said as he grabbed a silk napkin from the nearby table and began cleaning his dinner knife. ‘Patience is always the wiser course. I had four older brothers. The eldest two were twins, though there was some dispute as to which of them emerged first from our mother’s womb – they killed each other when they were twelve, before either was even of age to take the title. The third, determined to prove he was too strong to be challenged by the fourth, died from heat and exhaustion practising with his sword one particularly hot summer’s day. Weak heart.’ The corners of his lips turned down. ‘I always liked Pieten best. I miss him still.’

  I generally dislike listening to noblemen wax nostalgic about themselves, but since he had an army and I had yet to figure some way out of this mess, I kept quiet.

  ‘What about the fourth brother?’ Kest asked. I didn’t bother to elbow him; it wouldn’t have done any good: Kest’s obsessive need to know the answer to completely pointless things vastly outweighs his survival instincts.

  Rhetan didn’t seem to mind. ‘Astaniel? Ah, he did in fact become Margrave after my father died. He took the seat of Val Iramont at the age of fourteen and held it for nearly five years, every day of which he spent fearing that I was secretly planning to have him killed. He used to wake me up in the night, after our mother had retired for the evening. “I can see how you hunger for what is rightfully mine, little Rhetan”, he would say, and hold a knife to my throat.’ He frowned. ‘He could have killed me at any time, but he was so convinced that I had some devious plot against him that he feared my death would trigger his own.’

  ‘And you killed him?’ Kest asked.

  ‘Good Gods, no. After a few years his constant paranoia made him so stressed that he too suffered a heart attack, in the middle of the night. They found him dead, his body lying across a table strewn with sheets of paper upon which he had listed his enemies, real and imagined. That’s when I became the Margrave. I was never a particularly bold warrior, nor even very clever, but I’ve always been patient. Patience is what gets you ahead in life.’ He turned to Pheras, who was still waiting for his orders. ‘Take two dozen of ours below to man the oars and steer us back to shore. Have the galleon follow. Once we’re all back on dry land, have our doctor look to the injured. Afterwards you and the others find something to eat at the palace – I’m sure my nephew won’t mind if you raid his stores.’

  Evidalle looked as if he did mind, very much, but he was wise enough to let it pass. ‘The hospitality of Barsat awaits you, Uncle,’ he managed sulkily.

  Pheras nodded and ran back up to relay the orders, and during the hustle and bustle, Kest whispered, ‘Falcio, if we’re going to make a move
, it has to be now, while Rhetan’s men are busy dealing with the boats.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘If we get into position, we can jump over the side just before the barge reaches the dock. Evidalle’s wedding carriage is waiting there – you, Chalmers and I can unhitch the horses while Brasti provides covering fire. The odds aren’t great, but the four of us might—’

  ‘What about her?’ I asked, looking down at Lady Cestina’s barely conscious sister, leaning against Chalmers for support. The Lady Mareina shared her sister’s colouring and features, but her beauty was marred by extensive cuts and bruising and the effects of being half-starved. She was in no shape to be leaping over the side and running through the shallows, and even if she could, she’d never be fast enough to escape enemy fire.

  Kest shook his head. ‘This comes down to moving between the ticks of a clock, Falcio. You know that. If we let anything slow us down, we’ll be dead before we reach the carriage.’

  ‘You’d leave an innocent victim behind?’ Chalmers whispered furiously.

  ‘We won’t do her much good if we’re dead.’

  ‘Keep silent a moment,’ I said, surveying the scene aboard both the galleon and the wedding barge, searching for some opportunity that Kest might have missed. But he was right: Rhetan’s soldiers were disciplined and efficient, and far too numerous for any of our usual tricks. Even with some form of distraction, it would be all we could do to escape without hauling the half-conscious Lady Mareina with us. The young woman’s eyes caught mine; her fear was justified – and contagious. For a moment I worried she might try to make her own desperate run for it, even though she must have known she’d be dead before she hit the water. Perhaps that was preferable to being held captive by her sister and Margrave Evidalle.

  ‘Just wait a little longer,’ I whispered, as much to myself as to her.

  Evidalle made a token effort to regain control of his own wedding. ‘Uncle, we have much to discuss. I suggest we put the Greatcoats to the sword, allow the clerics to complete the ceremony, and then you and I can sit down with a nice glass of brandy and discuss business. With this marriage, my standing in the Duchy will be vastly improved.’