Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘The Dashini did kill,’ Nehra admitted, ‘but it wasn’t murder, not originally.’

  ‘So, mercy killings then? A quick poignard to the heart for those tired of life?’

  Nehra was apparently tiring of my belligerence. ‘Were you a murderer, Falcio, on those occasions when the verdict you rendered was death to those who had committed the most heinous of crimes?’

  I bristled at the comparison. ‘When a magistrate sentences a man to death it’s because there’s no other choice, and because the law demands it. That’s why only Greatcoats have the authority to issue verdicts of . . .’

  All of a sudden the point of Nehra’s question became clear. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

  Apparently, she wasn’t. ‘When the Order of the Dashini was first formed, it executed only those warrants passed to them by the Trattari – by the First Cantor, in fact.’

  ‘That’s a damned lie! If I have to sentence a man to death I bloody well hold the blade myself! I don’t send some assassin out to—’

  She cut me off, raising her voice for the first time. ‘And what about those occasions when the wealth and influence put a guilty person beyond the reach of even your vaunted Greatcoats? What do you do then, First Cantor?’

  Nothing. That was the honest answer. Some people are simply too rich and powerful to kill, so we did nothing – but I wasn’t about to admit that to Nehra.

  ‘We would go to the King,’ I said at last.

  Brasti snorted. ‘Yeah, and then Paelis would ask us if we thought executing a Viscount was worth starting a civil war.’

  ‘It was not the King’s decision to make,’ Nehra countered. ‘For the law to be just, it must be independent, and some questions of law have such far-ranging consequences that only the chief magistrate of the country may render the verdict.’

  Brasti elbowed me. ‘She means you, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘And just what question of law have you brought to me, Nehra?’ A terrible thought took shape in my mind, one that I would have believed impossible only hours before. ‘Have you brought me here to rule on whether we should assassinate the King in cold blood?’ I stared at each of them in turn. ‘Have you all lost your minds?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Sir Elizar said, ‘but isn’t that exactly what you set out to do?’

  ‘You think I want some legal justification for what I . . . ?’ My voice broke, and I took in long, slow breaths, hoping to steady myself, failing miserably. For all my petulance and outrage, I was like a child trying desperately not to cry, only to realise it was inevitable. ‘I tried to commit murder . . . I abandoned everything the King ever taught me! I was willing to do anything to get to Trin, even if that meant murdering a fifteen-year-old boy.’ I looked over at Kest. ‘Even if it meant killing my best friend.’

  ‘Aline had just died. You weren’t in control of yourself,’ Kest said, then, almost glibly, he added, ‘Besides, you only beat me with a lucky shot. Next time you do something that stupid I’m going to bash you senseless with my shield.’

  The light-hearted words were an invitation to share a moment’s laughter together, the opening of a door – but one I wasn’t ready to walk through. ‘If Ethalia hadn’t been there . . .’ My gaze went to her, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes. ‘If you hadn’t stopped me . . .’

  She came to me then. ‘I did nothing, Falcio, save to make you choose.’ She reached out a hand and placed it gently on my cheek. ‘You stopped yourself. Even there, in that awful place where she . . .’ She stopped, then said, ‘Aline would have been so proud of you.’

  The forgiveness and compassion in her words were meant as a kindness, but they struck me like an arrow in the centre of the chest, shattering what fragile armour still held me together. ‘I miss her, Ethalia – I miss her so much . . .’ A pain that had been building inside me minute by minute since the moment of Aline’s death radiated out to every part of my being. ‘Gods take me, Ethalia, the King meant for me to protect her and I failed – how am I supposed to go on with this inside me?’

  She held onto me, the strength of her arms the only thing keeping me from falling to the floor, and I felt her breath on my neck, heard the warm notes of her voice as she began to speak, but whatever comfort she was about to offer was cut off by Nehra.

  ‘By doing your job, First Cantor,’ the Bardatti said.

  ‘Give him time to mourn,’ Ethalia implored her.

  ‘No. Forgive me, Sancti.’ Nehra’s eyes met mine. ‘And forgive me, Falcio. I know this grief is more than you deserve to endure, but endure it you must.’

  ‘He’s not ready for this, damn it,’ Kest said, moving to stand between us.

  ‘You can protect him from me all you want,’ Nehra said to him, ‘but not from his duty. The Dukes have seceded and Tristia is on the brink of a war that will assure its total destruction. You have all seen the state of Tristia’s “army”, huddling in threadbare tents outside this broken castle. When news spreads, even those few will refuse to fight.’

  ‘Then let the new King deal with it,’ Darriana suggested, for once taking my side. ‘Or Trin. She broke the damned country – let her fix it.’

  ‘She can’t, and we all know that.’ Nehra cautiously pushed past Kest to stand before me. ‘Filian knows it too, Falcio. He’s going to come to you soon because he needs us – the Greatcoats, the Bardatti, and all the rest of the Orders. Even as few as we are, we’re the only ones left the people of this country still respect. Filian will need you to help rally them to his cause.’

  ‘And we’re supposed to decide the fate of the country?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘No, you fool,’ she replied, impatiently. ‘We cannot – it is not our verdict to render!’ She reached out and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. ‘The country has failed, Falcio – it’s failed in every way imaginable. No one is even sure if Tristia is a nation anymore. That’s why we brought you here. Before the Dal Verteri can fight a war, we need a verdict.’

  I stared back at her for a long time, partly because it took me time to make sense of her words and partly because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted the responsibility she was putting on me.

  ‘You are the First Cantor, after all,’ Darriana said with a smirk.

  The words practically sticking in my throat, I whispered, ‘You want me to put Tristia itself on trial. You want me to decide if my country deserves to fall.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The Trial of Tristia

  King Paelis once goaded me into a night-long legal debate about the limits of royal prerogative. For each supposed ‘privilege’ – from no taxes to outright murder – he would find some ancient law that could, in theory, justify the action. He kept pushing me, for hours on end, until finally our quarrel ended with me shouting at him, ‘Because I’d fucking bring down your country if you tried it – that’s why!’

  At the time I’d assumed the King had been arguing simply for the enjoyment of it – he always did take perverse pleasure in making me lose my temper – but now, standing there in Aramor’s courtroom with everyone awaiting my answer, I realised it was because even he had never been entirely sure of the answer to this simple question: what right does any country have to exist?

  By what rights are men and women subjugated, controlled by a government hundreds of miles away? If some form of social order is required, then why can’t any village or town simply declare itself a sovereign nation? A thousand years ago there had been no ‘Tristia’: it had been nothing more than a collection of disparate city-states, each ruling themselves as they pleased until they evolved into the nine Duchies, then ruled by Princes.

  Was ‘Tristia’ such a great idea that it deserved the sacrifice of what few Greatcoats, Bardatti and others we had left, in a futile attempt to save it one last time?

  More importantly, which magistrate would ever be so arrogant as to believe him- or h
erself qualified to make such a decision?

  Me, apparently.

  ‘I’ll hear evidence,’ I said.

  The young Knight, Sir Elizar, stepped forward. ‘The Honori have failed,’ he admitted. ‘The great Orders of Knighthood have faded from memory, leaving behind only men in armour who wield their weapons in service of whichever Lord pays for their fealty.’ He hung his head, dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘And even in this we failed. More than half of my brethren sided with Shuran in his bid to take the country. And then many sought redemption by siding with the Church and the Blacksmith’s God against the Crown. The rest – well, most of them – have abandoned their Lords and gone to seek whatever fortune a good set of armour and a strong blade can win for them.’

  ‘What would you have me do then, Sir Elizar?’ I asked.

  The young man pushed his shoulders back and stood up straight. ‘This nation is broken, First Cantor. There is nothing left for us to defend but its citizens. Let us turn our efforts to helping those who can flee across the water or the desert—’

  ‘And leave the rest to die at the hands of the Avareans?’

  Gwyn stepped forward. ‘My people are . . . hard,’ the young ­Rangieri said, ‘but they are not the barbarians you believe them to be.’ He turned to the others. ‘Listen to me, all of you: the Avarean way of war is not like your own. It is our religion, and rokhan the only measure; it is sacred to us. When the horde comes, they will offer you the chance to kneel, and in so doing, you will be branded as slaves. My people are not unkind to those they conquer, though it will be a difficult life.’

  ‘Slavery has no place in Tristia,’ Valiana said forcefully, ‘and nor will it so long as I am Realm’s Protector!’

  ‘I suspect they fired you from that job, sweetheart,’ Brasti pointed out. ‘Probably about two seconds after the crown was plonked onto Filian’s head.’

  ‘Then let them keep the title – it won’t stop me from fighting.’

  ‘Forgive me, Lady,’ Gwyn said, ‘but you know nothing of war.’ He shook his head as though struggling to find the words to explain. ‘Do none of you understand? You talk about “battle” as if it were a simple matter of placing pieces on a board, some sort of game to be won or lost. To an Avarean, the way a person fights is the measure of their worth. Courage in war, skill in battle, these are the only meaningful Gods we follow.’ He turned back to me. ‘If an enemy army fights bravely, cleverly, if they impress the horde with their rokhan, then the horde will look upon the conquered as brothers and sisters. This is how Avares grew from a small nation to one which encompasses the entire north and west of this continent.’

  ‘What happens if they aren’t so impressed?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘Then you will wish you had become slaves.’ Gwyn’s eyes looked haunted. ‘We have a word, kujandis . . .’ He was clearly struggling to translate it. Eventually, he said, ‘It means a cowardly opponent, one who is less than an animal. The only use for kujandis is for sport: it is no crime to kill one, or to slaughter them all.’

  His words hung in the air a while before he asked me, ‘Do you believe your people will fight bravely, First Cantor? Do you believe they will win rokhan in the face of a hundred warbands?’

  A strange question – a foolish question, really, when I was surrounded by the bravest people I’d ever known. But I knew full well they were the exception that proved the rule. ‘Not especially,’ I replied.

  ‘Then tell your King to submit, quickly, without hesitation or attempt at negotiation. The Avarean horde will reward subservience with mercy. Perhaps then, one day, Tristian blood and Avarean will be so intermixed that we shall truly be one people.’

  I saw a shadow cross Nehra’s face. Although she remained silent, I knew what she was thinking: One people. What of our art, our language, our stories? They would be gone; we would all be singing ‘Seven for a Thousand’ from now on.

  I looked at Quentis Maren, Inquisitor-turned-Greatcoat. ‘Well, what about you? I would think the Cogneri would be loath to let the worshippers of foreign Gods take over.’

  His expression was thoughtful, serious. ‘You know I am no longer one of the Cogneri, Falcio.’ He fingered the trim of his coat. ‘The Duchess of Hervor bade me wear this again to stand as representative of my old Order, but I am uncomfortable speaking on their behalf.’

  ‘Well, you’re the only Inquisitor we have,’ I said, ‘not to mention the only Cogneri whose judgement I would trust. Speak.’

  ‘I can’t advise you on this, First Cantor. I can’t imagine how one is supposed to decide the fate of a country – especially when the Venerati – who are supposed to be the religious leaders of this country – are every bit as corrupt as its nobility. Or worse. I see no path to redeem them.’

  ‘I take it you think the same?’ I asked Darriana, who was leaning back against the wall, arms folded across her chest.

  ‘I don’t give a shit – and I’ll tell you something else: the farmers and craftspeople and labourers? They don’t give a shit, either. They want food and roads and a chance to survive the next winter. Their local Lords practically treat them like slaves now, so what difference will it make if the guy shouting orders at them does it in Avarean or Tristian?’

  The women in carpenter’s clothes stepped forward, her fists clenched in anger. ‘You do not—’ She stopped abruptly and began to step back, until Ethalia walked to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘This is your country as much as theirs, Lyssande,’ she said. Her eyes went to me. ‘Do not let this nonsense convince you otherwise.’

  With Ethalia beside her, Lyssande found the confidence to speak. ‘First Cantor, do you . . . ?’ Again she hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, in as kindly a fashion as I could manage.

  ‘Do you . . . do you have children, First Cantor?’

  I thought about Valiana, to whom I’d given my name until Jillard had taken it away, but oddly, it was to Ethalia my eyes went. ‘I have no children of my own, no.’

  ‘I have a boy,’ Lyssande said, ‘six years old, and a girl, a year younger. Life’s been hard for my village since before my children were born, and yet they face each day so bravely, smiling when they find a bush in berry, playing at Greatcoats with nothing more than a bit of stick.’ She turned to the others. ‘I don’t know why we lose ourselves so easily in this country, but we are not born to be slaves. That is not our way.’

  ‘And who’s going to fight for your “way”, you silly cow?’ Darriana sneered. She gestured towards the door. ‘Have you been outside? Those pathetic conscripts? They are the dregs – actually, they’re the dregs of dregs. They’re not going to make a good impression on anyone.’

  Then she turned to face me. ‘How many times have these fine upstanding Tristians let you down, Falcio? Remind me: when the Dukes came for the one King who’d actively tried to better their lot, did they rise up? When the Blacksmith orchestrated his takeover and set his little churchmen against this country and this country’s Gods, did all these farmers and craftspeople and ditch-diggers fight? No, they bowed down.’

  She looked back at Lyssande and said, ‘I’m surprised you aren’t already on your knees. And when the Avareans come and those brave children of yours see every adult in their village bow to the invaders, you can bet they’ll learn to be cowards just like everyone else.’

  ‘And how much courage does it take to denigrate those who haven’t spent a lifetime learning to fight?’ Ethalia asked.

  Darriana looked chastened, but only for a moment before her angry, bitter self took over again. ‘So look who’s found her claws.’ She gestured to the duelling circle. ‘Is today the day we finally see your full measure?’

  ‘It certainly isn’t the day we see yours,’ Ethalia said. ‘Terrifying this woman who has no sword, no armour? She comes before you asking for hope – an act far more courageous than anything I’ve s
een from you today.’ She hesitated for a moment, and I saw her rising fury give way to a gentler impulse. ‘I expected better of you, Darriana.’

  Darri’s face went redder than I’d ever seen it. ‘One day,’ she muttered. Oddly, it was not so much a threat as a promise.

  ‘One day,’ Ethalia agreed. ‘But not today.’

  Finally Darri nodded, ‘Not today.’ She turned to Lyssande and said, ‘I’m sorry, Sister. I had no business . . . I’m sorry, that’s all.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Ethalia, if it comes to war, will the Saints of Tristia fight with us?’

  She shook her head. ‘The Saints’ Awe cannot be wielded as a sword, and should we try, I fear for what might happen.’ She stood up straighter. ‘But I will fight, whether the rest of the Orders unite or not.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked Nehra. ‘What do you have to say?’

  ‘I have no counsel to offer.’

  ‘No counsel? You arranged this trial!’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why? If you don’t have—’

  ‘The country is about to change, First Cantor, either because we made a decision and fought for it, or because we sat back and let the winds of Fate decide.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘I’m a Bardatti. We hate stories where Chance decides the ending.’

  Almost as if they’d received a signal, everyone else withdrew a step, leaving only Kest and Brasti standing there.

  ‘Anything you two want to add?’ I asked.

  Kest looked uncertain. ‘It comes down to a choice between Law and Justice – and they are two very different things, Falcio, despite how hard you’ve tried to unite them. The simple fact is that Filian is King now, and so it’s every citizen’s lawful obligation to defend him, and thus the country.’