And suddenly Lucien remembered, and understood.
Veritas Morte dated back to the earliest days of the Empire, when Noble fought Noble for supremacy over Qora. It became a means of deciding justice among the Houses that prevented outright war, and though it had long since fallen out of use, it remained a legal privilege of the Nobility: the accused could prove his innocence by facing his accuser in a duel to the death, and none but the Emperor could forbid it.
Veritas Morte was why no law enforcement officer was a member of the landed Nobility. They worked directly for the Empire, but were not Peers, so crimes could be tried without having to fight a duel, even if the accused was a Noble. Over the years, this kept the police forces out of petty politics and focused solely on the law and justice.
At least in theory.
For now, it was enough that Veritas Morte still existed, and Lucien had just handed it to Ymmersen on a silver platter. By not allowing Hamberly to do his job, and since he was not yet Emperor, Lucien had given Ymmersen an out, and he had used it.
Stupid!
Ymmersen’s smile widened. “You see now, don’t you? Veritas Morte, Prince Lucien. Face me, and prove your accusation with blood. Or recant, and prove yourself the craven fool we’ve always taken you for.”
Lucien was well and truly trapped. Abernathy’s earlier words seemed to reverberate bitterly in his ears: “Be above reproach of the law at all times, my Prince. Otherwise you undermine yourself and the Empire.”
How right he was.
The servants had cleared out the throne room for the occasion, and now the only furnishing remaining was a block in the center of the room that held two dueling rapiers, points down and ready for drawing. Lucien rolled his shoulders, staring at the block from his position at the foot of the throne’s dais and trying not to let his nerves get the better of him. It was a difficult task. He had fought countless times in the ring, engaged in unnumbered duels, but they had all been for practice or recreation, with dulled blades and blunted tips. This was real, and those swords could cut or kill a man--could kill him--with ease.
Across the room, Ymmersen was completing his final preparations. He was stripped to the waist, like Lucien, wearing only baggy dueling pants that were cinched at the waist and ankles. Also like Lucien, he was barefoot. His body was lean and hard, and he bore a number of scars on his torso, the leavings from previous duels. It was said he had fought over twenty, for various reasons, and Lucien knew for a fact he was brilliant with a blade.
Their eyes met for a moment and Ymmersen grinned. He liked his chances. He liked them a lot.
“This is insane.” Lucien looked to his right, where Princess Ophelia stood with her assistant Deela. And she was not alone; every shipboard member of the Imperial Court was present, lining both sides of the room so that all could bear witness. And why not? Veritas Morte had not been invoked in years, and certainly no other duel had been fought recently with such import behind it. Ophelia wore the same black and grey gown as before--no time to change, Lucien supposed--and a look of concerned disbelief on her face. “Why are you doing this? What can this…savagery…prove?”
Lucien rolled his eyes. She did not--could not--understand. “It’s not how I would prefer,” he said, honestly. And why did she care anyway? “But there is no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Lucien. If - “
Three raps of a heavy staff onto the faux stone of the throne room floor interrupted her, and brought all eyes to the center of the room, where Lord Morsy stood next to the block of swords, staff in hand.
“Veritas Morte has been invoked, and here we meet it,” Morsy said in a somber tone that carried throughout the room with ease. The Court shuffled about, and the sound of murmurs and whispers came from both sides. Morsy waited for the murmurs to die down before continuing. “Baron Ymmersen and Prince Lucien will meet, and there will the truth be known. All will bear witness, and all will honor the outcome.” He rapped the staff against the floor again, then backed away from the block to join the rest of the Court.
Lucien drew a deep breath, then squared his shoulders and advanced to the block. It seemed a garden’s worth of butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach; it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other without trembling. Ymmersen followed suit, but he moved with a cocksure swagger. Apparently he felt no such nerves.
They met at the block and each rested his hand upon his blade. Their eyes met.
“You were supposed to die with him, you know,” Ymmersen said quietly enough that no one but Lucien could hear it. “But I think I will enjoy it more killing you myself.” He sneered and withdrew his blade with a flourish, then stepped back two paces and into en garde.
Lucien could not move for a second, from shock at the man’s confession. For the briefest of moments, he thought sure he had an out. Ymmersen had confessed to the crime, that would suffice wouldn’t it? But just as quickly that hope died. None of that mattered now. Veritas Morte was in play, and the only truth that could be found from it would come when one or the other of them lay dead.
Ophelia was right: it was insanity. But it was all he had available to him at the moment.
Lucien pulled his rapier from the block and stepped back as Ymmersen had.
From the left, two servants hurried forth. They quickly picked up the block that had held the swords, then scampered back to the side, leaving the floor completely empty for his and Ymmersen’s use.
Silence loomed, and the moment seemed to bear down on Lucien’s shoulders like the weight of a hundred men. Was he actually doing this?
“Begin,” intoned Morsy, from the side.
Ymmersen came forward in a dash, his rapier flicking toward Lucien’s eyes.
He twisted to the side, avoiding the attack, and countered with a thrust of his own, but Ymmersen danced away from it easily.
They circled for a moment, making small feints and probes but neither committing, then Ymmersen came again, this time dancing to the side before coming low with a thrust at the hip.
Lucien parried, but the angle was wrong to get in a counter, so he just retreated.
On it went like that, for several passes. Very quickly, Lucien realized Ymmersen was toying with him, getting a feel for his strengths and weaknesses while baiting Lucien to take advantage of openings he wanted him to see. The first of those traps almost ended the duel right then, but Lucien managed to escape with only a small cut on his side.
From then on, he was more cautious.
Of course, that gave Ymmersen the advantage of initiative, but Lucien could not see how to change that. Every move, every feint, every dodge--Ymmersen saw through them all and had a deft counter prepared.
Lucien leaped backward from a particularly vicious riposte, but not before he received a cut to his left pectoral. A fine trail of blood flew from the end of Ymmersen’s blade as he completed the cut, landing in a stream of drops across the floor.
Off to the left, Lucien heard a gasped inhalation, and he looked aside quickly to see Ophelia covering her mouth in shock. Some of Lucien’s blood had landed upon her servant’s dress and face. He hadn’t realized he and Ymmersen had come so close to them.
Lucien spun to the side and backed away, avoiding a thrust that Ymmersen sent when he looked at the Princess.
“Did you plan it together,” he asked in the same tone Ymmersen had used in his confession, “you and her?”
Ymmersen blinked and paused to glance aside at the Capestrani Princess for a second. Then he snorted. “She hasn’t the stomach for such things. She thinks talk will solve all of her problems.” He shook his head and advanced again. “Fool.”
That was an interesting thought to come from the Minister of Diplomacy.
Lucien retreated, getting back into the center of the room while parrying near-continuous thrusts from Ymmersen. His chest and side burned from the two cuts, and his body was slick with sweat. But Ymmersen seemed unaffected by his exertion, and he kept on coming.
It could not go on this way; sooner or later he was going to slip or tire, and that would be it.
Ymmersen darted to the left, thrusting at Lucien’s hip again, but he left his body turned a little too much toward Lucien…
He darted forward and twisted his body so that Ymmersen’s thrust slipped harmlessly by, then followed up with a thrust of his own, toward the Minister’s solar plexus. For a second, he thought the attack was going to strike home.
But then Ymmersen leaped upward and pivoted in the opposite direction, and something struck Lucien on the back of his skull hard enough that he saw stars. He fell forward, his vision going dark, but he somehow managed to tuck his head into a roll as his shoulder struck the ground.
He came up onto his feet at the end of the roll and almost fell over again. The room spun around him and he could hardly tell which way was which. But he could not afford to stop moving.
So he ran to the left. Or, he tried to run. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell again, this time landing on his side.
Keep moving.
He rolled to the side, and something clinked off the stone behind him.
Finally, he found his feet again and pushed himself upright, swinging his rapier wildly around him to ward off his foe, who must surely be coming.
And sure enough, no sooner had he come fully erect than he saw Ymmersen. The Minister actually was forced to retreat by Lucien’s wild swing, and he counted himself lucky.
He gathered himself, his ears still ringing from the blow despite the world’s spinning having slowed. He tasted blood, and spat out a mouthful of red onto the floor.
Ymmersen paused, looked him up and down, then grinned and made a quick salute with his sword. The pommel of the weapon was bloody, from where it had struck Lucien’s head, apparently.
Then he came again.
The attack was swift and relentless, faster than anything Ymmersen had shown to that point. Lucien parried desperately, but another thrust followed. Then another, and another, and Lucien could do nothing but defend.
Finally a thrust came in that he wasn’t able to parry, and Ymmersen’s rapier stabbed into the meat of his right shoulder. Lucien heard himself cry out, and his sword arm went limp for a second.
In desperation, he tried to raise his weapon back up to defend himself, but he was too slow. Ymmersen danced to the side and thrust into Lucien’s right thigh.
His leg went out from under him and he collapsed to the floor.
Somewhere, he heard a voice shout, “No!” A woman’s voice. Ophelia? No, she wouldn’t care if he were struck down.
Pain was his entire being. His wounds screamed out at him, the salt in his sweat making their shouts all the harsher. But worse was the pain in his soul. Ymmersen had betrayed him, taken away everything, and now he was going to take his life.
No.
He pushed himself upward, but he could only reach one knee before cold steel on the side of his neck stopped him cold.
He looked up into the eyes of his father’s--of his--would-be killer, and Ymmersen grinned in triumph.
“Goodbye, Prince Lucien.” He began to draw his sword back, for the killing blow.
No!
Lucien heard himself roar…something. He grabbed at the blade of Ymmersen’s rapier with his left hand, gripping it with all his might. The Minister’s eyes widened and he pulled the weapon back. The edges of the blade cut into the flesh of Lucien’s palm as it moved, but he grasped all the harder and forced the blade to the side. He surged upward, his one good leg pushing him up like a piston as he grabbed his own weapon and thrust.
Ymmersen’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief, and his mouth dropped open.
They stood there, two men locked in a deadly embrace, for a long moment, staring into each other’s faces.
Then Ymmersen’s sword arm went limp and he sagged forward. Lucien could see the tip of his own weapon, now red with the Minster’s blood, emerging from his back.
Ymmersen’s weapon fell to the floor. Lucien moved his hand to the man’s shoulder and pulled his rapier out of the Minister’s body. Ymmersen let out a groan and took a halting step away. Then he took two more before he collapsed to the floor.
Lucien just looked at him unbelievingly for a moment. He had been so sure he was going to die, that Ymmersen had won. And now…
But why?
The question surged up within him. The question he had asked himself when his mother passed, and again countless times since the poisoning.
Ymmersen’s blood flowed freely from his wound, but he still moved. There was life in him yet.
Lucien stepped toward him, stumbled and almost fell, but caught himself. He forced himself to cover the distance, then crouched down beside the stricken Minister. The traitor. He let his sword go and took hold of Ymmersen’s shoulder, rolling him over so that he lay on his back. Then Lucien leaned over so he could look him in the eye.
“Why?”
Ymmersen gasped, but said nothing. His eyes looked past Lucien to the crystalline ceiling, and the universe beyond. Blood that had been trickling from his mouth ran down the side of his face. His breath came in rasping heaves.
All the pain and anger of the last day welled up with him, and Lucien grabbed the sides of Ymmersen’s head and pulled the dying man’s face closer to his own. “Damn you, Ymmersen,” he all but shouted, “why?!”
Softly, almost too softly to hear, Ymmersen, in between gurgling coughs, said “Si… Sirene…”
Then his breath rattled in his throat one last time and his eyes glazed over in death.
Lucien leaned on his cane and tried not to wince at the stabbing pain as his leg protested his refusal to sit down. He could not afford the luxury, and anyway he felt it would be an affront to not feel his own pain fully here, of all places.
Through the plexiglass, his father still lay in his coma, but he was clearly worse. The Emperor’s visage was haggard, thin almost to emaciation. Despite all of the doctors’ efforts, he continued to waste away. He had at best a few days left. Against that, the pain of Lucien’s wounds were like a candle against a hurricane. He lowered his eyes, the emptiness of impending loss filling him. Somehow, the fact that he had avenged his father was little comfort.
Forcing himself to look away, he turned to face the men with him. “Have you been able to figure out who or what Sirene is?”
Hamberly cleared his throat and nodded. “My technicians have completed their search of the Baron’s records, sire. It seems Sirene is the name of his late wife.”
“Truly.” Lucien looked from the Master Chief to Abernathy for confirmation. “I did not know he was married.”
“Nor I, my Prince. The late Baron was a deep well of secrets, it seems.”
Lucien frowned, troubled, and gestured for Hamberly to continue.
“Evidently she was from Corellis. They met when he was stationed there early in his career, and wed in secret.” He paused as though considering his words carefully. “I surmise he feared his marriage to someone outside of the Empire would tarnish his career prospects.”
A not unfounded fear, actually. Ties to an outside nation could potentially place one’s loyalty to the Empire in doubt, which would hamper one’s ability to advance. But still…
“He can’t have been the first to marry from Outside.” Lucien glanced at Abernathy, and the old man nodded. “There are procedures that need to be followed, but it can be worked out. We’re not barbarians, after all.”
Hamberly shrugged. “Be that as it may, sire, he opted to keep it secret. As the years went on, they saw each other from time to time, and they communicated regularly.” He cleared his throat again. “It seems he fed her information about a number of Imperial initiatives over the years, as well.”
Which was a polite way of saying he had been a spy. Well, one treason followed another it seemed.
Abernathy cursed under his breath.
Lucien was inclined to agree, but still… “It seems a far jump fr
om spying to assassination.”
Hamberly nodded. “There is a clear shift in his writings, starting two years ago. He begins musing about the impropriety of the Imperial plans for Corellis. He especially - “
“Wait. Two years ago?” That didn’t make any sense. “The crisis between Corellis and Hotor’s Star did not flare up until six months ago.”
“Officially, no, my Prince,” Abernathy said. “But the preparations for the Corellis campaign had been in progress for quite some time before that. The pieces had to be set, the justifications engineered.”
“I’m sorry. Engineered? Corellis attacked Hotor’s Star. What could be engineered about that?”
Abernathy looked away from him, his expression pained. “You were too young at the time to be told all the details, my Prince. Suffice it to say, Corellis attacked, yes, but it was not without provocation.”
“You’re saying we goaded them into it.”
Abernathy hesitated, then nodded.
“Intentionally, to give justification for an invasion.”
Another nod, and Abernathy still would not meet his eyes.
Lucien turned back to look at his father, the bottom going out from his stomach. The enormity of the lie the Empire had told to the universe--of the lie his father had told him--struck at him worse than Ymmersen’s pommel strike. His head swam and he could barely see for a moment.
“This wasn’t the first time, was it?”
Silence. But Abernathy did not need to answer for Lucien to know that he was correct.
“What happened to being upright before the law?”
“We met every legal requirement, my Prince.”
“But not the spirit of the law.”
Abernathy did not respond to that.
“So we were planning to invade his wife’s home. He tried to stop it but failed, so he worked behind the scenes to help them build their defenses. Thus the unexpected increase to their star fleet. He must have hoped that surprise would make us rethink our plans.” Lucien found, against his will, that his heart went out to the man. Such a dilemma to endure.
“That appears to have been his plan, yes, sire,” Hamberly said. “Until eight months ago, when Sirene was killed in one of the initial incidents that spawned the crisis.”
Veritas Morte: A Science Fiction Novella Page 5