Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  Filian looked horrified. ‘No, of course not! She made me care for him – she said love and loyalty are one and the same, and to prove myself a man, I must prove that loyalty every day.’

  ‘Then what—?’

  ‘Sharpneys are good dogs, loyal to a fault. But they can be aggressive, go a bit mad sometimes. Gazer . . . well, he attacked a boy in the village . . .’ Filian’s voice dropped. ‘Nearly tore his arm off.’

  ‘What did Patriana do?’

  Filian looked ashamed. ‘Nothing, at least at first. I lived with a servant, Mully, who pretended to be my father. Duchess Patriana always made sure I had plenty of money, so I had Mully pay the boy’s family. They kept it quiet.’ His look of shame deepened. ‘But Gazer got worse – not with me, but he hurt another child, and then another. I paid their families too, but then Duchess Patriana found out.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She asked me if I thought people’s lives could be bought for a few coins; how many more boys and girls should suffer before I did what needed to be done.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I yelled at her. I threw her own words back at her: “You said love and loyalty were the same thing, and that a man had to always be loyal!” but she told me, “And a King must ask himself if he is to judge himself by the standards of a man or by something more.” She said a King always had to ask what price others would pay for his love.’

  ‘You killed the dog.’

  ‘Trin offered to do it for me, but Gazer was my responsibility.’ Filian looked over at me. ‘Do you think that if my father had been in my place he would have done differently?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, but I was lying. Paelis would have looked for another way around the problem, even if it was doomed to fail. He had never been very good at sacrificing those he loved.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this little tale of sick dogs and hard decisions. If I closed my eyes and imagined Patriana, I saw a monster in woman’s form, capable – no, desirous – of succumbing to every conceivable act of cruelty.

  And yet . . .

  The men and women who’d left their villages in Hervor and Orison had told us she’d been good to them, she’d kept them safe and fed while the south never spared a second thought to their wellbeing . . .

  ‘She liked you, you know,’ Filian said, pulling me from my reverie.

  ‘She tortured me.’

  ‘She said you were the best man she’d ever known.’

  ‘Patriana? I think she must have been referring to a different Falcio val Mond.’

  ‘You can’t reconcile her different aspects, can you?’

  ‘Not really, no – if she admired me so much, maybe she shouldn’t have put quite so much effort into killing me.’

  He bit his lip for a moment. ‘She liked you, but she didn’t admire you. She said you wanted to be a good man but you didn’t care what your goodness cost the country. Like all the Greatcoats. Sometimes rulers must be harsh, even . . . well, evil, I suppose, because sometimes that’s what the country needs.’

  ‘Spoken like a true noble,’ Brasti said, coming up behind us. He put the back of his hand on his forehead. ‘Oh woe is me, for the good of the country I must torture and kill a few more villagers today.’

  Filian stared at me, trying to make me understand his point. ‘When Patriana was alive, her people were safe and prosperous. Now she is dead and those same families starve while you race around the country righting whichever wrongs please you.’

  ‘You should really shut your mouth now, boy,’ Brasti said.

  Filian ignored him. ‘You wanted to know what kind of a King I would be? I would be a King who put the welfare of his people above my own loves, my own ideals – and if that meant doing things that tied my stomach up in knots, then I would remember Duchess Patriana and Gazer and do what was necessary.’

  The sound of yew creaking as it bent filled the air. ‘See? Now there’s something we agree on,’ Brasti said, a big smile on his face. ‘Which is an excellent reason to get rid of you now, before you become an even bigger pain in our backsides.’

  ‘That depends,’ Filian said. His voice was steady, but I could see he was terrified. ‘If you believe my sister would be a better monarch, then loose your arrow. But if you believe that the law is a necessary prerequisite to a country’s survival, then perhaps you should be magistrates and stop trying to set the course of the country’s future as though it were yours to choose.’

  ‘Says the boy whose favourite Auntie Patriana arranged to have the King executed – murder’s illegal, by the way, in case no one’s mentioned it to you before.’

  The boy chewed on his lip. ‘Actually, that’s not entirely true. Some of my father’s actions technically overstepped the traditional rights of the monarch. Some interpretations of the Regia Maniferecto De’egro would suggest that—’

  Brasti grimaced. ‘Saint Hugo-whose-words-bore-men-senseless, he sounds just like Kest now.’ He turned to me. ‘Falcio?’

  ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Just start the damned fire before we all freeze to death and these questions become moot.’

  Reluctantly, Brasti relaxed the tension on his bowstring and put the arrow back in its quiver. Then, with far greater enthusiasm, he set about instructing Filian – who then made up for all of his offences in Brasti’s eyes by being an attentive listener – just how easy it is to light a fire, and how only the truly thick could possibly have any difficulty doing it.

  In the meantime I turned my attention to our route home. It would be a long, slow trip and some part of me was glad of it, for once we reached Aramor, I would need to make a decision once and for all. Would I be a magistrate, or a kingmaker?

  Kest had been wrong. Apparently it was entirely possible for the world not to revolve around me while still settling its entire weight on my shoulders.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Reunion

  The southern passes between the eastern border of Avares and my own home Duchy of Pertine felt longer and more treacherous than I’d expected, and yet it couldn’t have been more than fifty miles. I’d spent my childhood on one side of those mountains, listening to stories mangled through repetition about the barbarians on the other side, never really understanding just how close they were to us.

  We stayed well away from any populated areas, heeding Gwyn’s warning that the Avareans had a system for alerting their settlements about invaders: smoke fires that could be lit to signal across the mountains in case of attempted enemy incursion. I didn’t think our little party really qualified, but I also didn’t want anyone sending word of our passing up or down the chain to where it might reach the Magdan.

  When our food ran out, Brasti and Gwyn set about hunting, trapping just enough to keep us from starving. The Rangieri considered the quantity of game more than sufficient, but it wasn’t long before the rest of us took to discussing the foods we missed the most and what our first proper meal would be the moment we set foot back in a civilised country. But by the time we’d entered Pertine and bought extra horses to speed our trip back to Aramor, we were seeing the hunger and deprivation all around us. We stopped talking altogether after that.

  It was almost a relief to find ourselves periodically set upon by brigands. As it happened, the roads were filthy with them, and Kest, Brasti and I quickly slipped into our more normal roles, scaring our enemies off when we could, killing them only when they gave us no other choice. Gwyn turned out to be an effective fighter. He could make all sorts of wooden weapons with that great big knife of his, and he used them to good effect in close combat. Now he was fit again, his sling proved to be a remarkably capable weapon for distance work.

  At first I wondered why anyone would take the risk of attacking us. It was clear enough we weren’t carrying trade goods and certainly didn’t look wealthy enough to have much coin. The answer, it turned out, was that the brigands weren�
�t interested in us at all: it was the horses they wanted – and not for riding.

  Tristians don’t eat horseflesh, not as a rule, but clearly times had changed. The conspiracies, endless battles and betrayals and finally, the loss of their deities had proved to be one too many blows for anyone to endure. I doubted the people in these parts cared anything for Greatcoats or laws or who should sit the Tristian throne, they just wanted food and an end to year after year of things getting worse. If they’d had a choice between Patriana or King Paelis, I don’t think they’d have hesitated for one second; it was beginning to look like Patriana would have been a hugely popular Queen.

  What if people didn’t need outdated heroics and idealism? What if they didn’t need Greatcoats at all? What if the one thing my country needed most to survive was a tyrant? That question festered inside me all the way to Castle Aramor, where I found a different kind of mathematics at play.

  ‘Saint Felsan’s rotting balls,’ Brasti said, staring at the tents littering the castle grounds, ‘please tell me this isn’t another pilgrimage. I’m too bloody tired to kill a God today.’

  The clusters of rake-thin men and women warming themselves around fires, rusted swords lying unscabbarded on the cold ground, were eating greedily from bowls being handed out by guardsmen from the castle. Gwyn looked around at them with a mixture of disgust and pity in his expression. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Soldiers,’ Kest explained. ‘They’re conscripts.’

  I heard Filian’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Not quite the royal army you hoped for, your Majesty?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘and try not to be noticed until we can get you safely inside.’

  As we rode up, I guessed at the numbers around us. ‘Two thousand, do you think?’ I asked Kest, but he shook his head.

  ‘Less than twelve hundred,’ he replied.

  Brasti pointed down one of the rows of tents. ‘Well, I hope you’re not counting him in that number.’

  I followed the line of Brasti’s arm and saw a one-legged man some distance away, holding himself up with a crutch. He watched us with one eye, the other being covered by a patch. ‘How exactly is he supposed to face off against an Avarean warrior?’ Brasti asked.

  I wondered the same thing myself, but something about the man was bothering me, and not just his infirmity. Despite missing an eye and a limb, he held himself like a soldier and his arms were still showing wiry muscles that defied obvious age and years of rough living. When he caught me staring, he turned away and ducked into his tent.

  ‘We should go,’ Kest said. ‘Best get inside and report to Valiana as quickly as possible.’

  I nodded, but something was keeping me rooted there. I thought at first it was the paupers’ army arrayed before us – Saints, how long had it taken Valiana’s envoys to collect even these few shabby volunteers? With his four hundred Shan steel-armed and Greatcoat- and Avarean-trained warriors, Morn would cut through this lot in an afternoon. And there were dozens of other warbands in Avares, each with their own horde of skilled fighters.

  ‘Come on,’ Brasti said, ‘let’s go and see the Realm’s Protector so I can ask her personally how she expects a one-legged, one-eyed man to help her “protect” the realm.’

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I said, and suddenly found myself dismounting and walking towards the tents.

  ‘Falcio?’

  ‘Wait here and keep an eye on the boy,’ I said, and headed straight for the tent I’d seen the man enter. No recruitment envoy, no matter how desperate, would conscript an ageing, one-legged man to be a soldier.

  *

  The tent looked empty at first glance, but only because the old man was hiding himself just to the right of the entrance. The flash of a curved dagger flitted into my peripheral vision as he brought it up to my neck. Without hesitation I dropped my own weapon and reached up to grab his wrist. He was a strong devil, but he needed one arm to hold onto his crutch so it took me only a moment to twist the blade from his hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, letting the knife fall to the ground. ‘Couldn’t take a chance it might be one of them bastards from Luth come to make trouble again.’

  ‘Which bastards would those be?’ I asked.

  He grimaced and reached up a hand to scratch at his scraggly beard. ‘Fucking Ducal guardsmen. A couple of ’em come through once in a while looking to see if there’s any contraband they can “confiscate”.’

  As if I didn’t already have enough reasons to want to pummel Pastien’s guards to a pulp. One more thing to deal with later. Keeping an eye on the old man, I knelt down and picked up his knife. ‘You were staring at me,’ I said.

  He gave a half-grin that didn’t do anything to make up for the scars on his face that weren’t nearly well enough covered by his beard. ‘Couldn’t help myself, Trattari. You’re pretty damned ugly.’

  Despite the crutch, he stood straight-backed, confident, almost commanding. It was his presence, rather than his appearance, that made me recognise him. ‘Well, you don’t look half-bad for a dead man, General Feltock.’

  His smile widened. ‘Captain, as you well know. Wondered when you’d figure out it was me, Falcio.’

  ‘But how—? Duke Perault’s soldiers had you outnumbered four to one.’

  Feltock nodded. ‘Aye, and killed every one of my boys,’ he said, an angry edge to his voice. ‘Thought they’d killed me, too.’ He tapped a finger against the patch. ‘Did you know you can survive a crossbow bolt right in the eye?’

  ‘And the leg?’ I asked.

  He looked down and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the limb was gone. ‘A cut – barely a scratch, really. Got infected.’ He looked back at me. ‘Funny, ain’t it? A wound that should’ve killed me – the shot that convinced Duke Perault’s soldiers that I was already dead – saved my life, and a little nick on my thigh cost me my leg.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Not half as sorry as you’ll be if you keep looking at me with that pitying expression on your face.’

  I was working on a clever reply when suddenly Feltock reached out and grabbed my shoulders with both hands, letting his crutch fall to the ground. ‘Thank you, boy,’ he said, hugging me roughly.

  ‘For what?’

  He looked at me as if I were mad. ‘For her, of course. For ­Valiana. You saved her! Despite all that bitch Patriana tried to do, you saved my girl!’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘The things she’s done . . . becoming Realm’s Protector, facing down a God . . . you even made her a Greatcoat!’

  It was quite possibly the first time I’d ever heard him refer to us as anything other than ‘Trattari’. Then it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t the person who should be having this reunion. ‘Damn, Feltock, we have to take you to her! She’ll be so happy to—’

  He pulled away from me, hopping over to reach down and pick up his crutch. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  He used the crutch to help himself back up, refusing my hand. ‘Look at me, Falcio. I’m a broken old man, useless for anything but begging my way from village to village. I won’t have Valiana see me like this.’

  ‘She wouldn’t care,’ I said. ‘She’d want to . . .’

  The deep, unrelenting sorrow in his gaze told me there was no point in pushing him further, and yet I couldn’t help but ask, ‘Why did you come here, Feltock? If you didn’t want her to see you then why—?’

  ‘So I could see her,’ he replied, and held the tent flap open for me to leave. ‘Just one more time, Falcio. So I could catch a glimpse of our girl from afar and see how bright she shines in all this darkness.’

  *

  Though it pained me to do so, I did as Feltock asked and kept his presence secret even from the others. I knew Kest would understand, if I’d explained Feltock’s reasoning. Br
asti would have listened carefully, nodded his head, and then run off straightaway to tell Valiana. He never did think much of the old tragedies, those stories and plays about honour and dignity. So I kept my silence and made vague excuses as I rejoined the others and we walked our mounts up to the castle where other annoyances awaited our attention.

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ a man in the brown livery of Domaris warned, gesturing to his fellows to be ready in case we tried to pass. ‘No entrance until our captain—’

  Filian started to speak but Brasti blessedly cut him off before the boy could unwittingly draw attention to himself. ‘Oh, for the love of Saint Liza-who-shaves-men’s-backs,’ Brasti swore, ‘not this again.’

  One of the Domaris guardsmen looked at us quizzically. ‘Saint who?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘And we’re not here to make trouble.’

  ‘We aren’t?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘No.’ I turned my gaze back to the guardsman. ‘I just need you to take a message to Aline for me. Tell her—’

  My words were cut off as a blur in a blue gown ran past the guardsmen, shouts following close behind. Something soft struck me square in the chest, nearly bowling me over, and it took me a moment to realise that my assailant was a young woman apparently intent on hugging me to death.

  ‘Tell her yourself, you unshaven, smelly excuse for a magistrate!’

  I tried to say something clever in reply, but her hair was covering my mouth, the scent of it filling my nostrils with reminders that not everything in the world reeked of sweat and grime. Aline might be small for her age but her arms gripped me tightly, and I hugged her back just as hard, falling to my knees from the sheer joy of holding her.

  ‘Aline!’ someone called, followed by hurried footsteps, and I shook away enough of Aline’s hair to look up at the woman standing before me. Gods, but I wanted to grow more arms so I could hold her, too – mind you, I wasn’t quite sure if she’d knock me down for trying. She probably hadn’t yet forgiven me for my interference with Pastien.