by Victor Milán
Karyl snorted. “Bravado,” he said. “I appreciate it, just the same. But be warned: those who’ve fought beside me in the past have not fared well.”
“Fair enough,” Rob said. “So now: you must tell me how it was you misplaced your hand, and found yourself falling off a cliff into the Tyrant’s Eye.”
Karyl walked on. Rob ran after, yanking Little Nell into a thumping lope. At which she blew through her big, fleshy nostrils altogether more theatrically than was necessary in protest.
“Wait!” Rob shouted. “You can’t just walk away and not tell me.”
Clearly Karyl could. “Fae take you!” Rob exclaimed.
Karyl spun. His face was bone white, his eyes bleak and black.
“Don’t ever say that to me again,” he said.
Rob stopped dead. Little Nell barely pulled up in time to avoid trampling him.
“But I thought you didn’t believe in the Fae!”
Karyl’s eyes became slits. “Don’t say it again.”
He turned and continued down the road into the broad green valley.
Rob sighed. “Ah well, that’s the price of dealing with genius,” he told Little Nell as he urged her to a placid plod. “It’s contrary and cantankerous. As well you know from keeping company with me!”
It was just coincidence that the hook-horn farted loudly. So he told himself.
* * *
“Jaume! Come in, my boy. Come in!”
Smiling, Jaume advanced to meet his uncle, who rose from a purple velvet chair and came forward with arms spread to enfold him. The young Count’s step faltered slightly as he saw another man seated in the room by dim sunlight through the window.
Somewhere a woman sang a haunting melody, with decent voice and a feeling Jaume admired.
Felipe hugged his nephew warmly. In the privacy of his apartments the Emperor wore loose linen trunks and a green silken vest that left his capacious, ginger-furred belly bare.
“You’ve met Duke Falk?” he asked.
“Not formally,” Jaume said.
“Not even on the field of battle,” the Duke said, rising. He came forward, extending a big square hand.
Jaume clasped it. Falk gave him an honest grip, strong and dry, with no silly games about trying to crush his hand.
“I am honored,” Falk said, stepping back with a brief bow. He wore a long loose silken gown in his colors: blue, black, white.
“The pleasure’s mine,” Jaume said. He gave the Emperador a searching look as he took the chair Felipe indicated, though.
The door opened again. Quickly, almost surreptitiously, Chief Minister Mondragón entered. He was a tall man, lean in robes of black and brown, with black hair worn close to either side of a narrow head, a neat beard, and a nose like a blade. His eyes were large and dark.
He stopped short. “Duke Falk? Here?”
“Now, Don Pablo,” Felipe said, “the Duke has made his submission. And I of course decreed a general amnesty for participants in the … late unpleasantness up North.”
“Yes, but—” The minister’s lips pressed to a thin line. “To be sure, Majesty.”
He bowed tightly toward Falk. “Please forgive me, your Grace.”
“Of course,” Falk said. But the teeth at the edges of his smile seemed very sharp indeed.
“What have you learned about our mysterious visitor?” Felipe asked. He sat back and took a handful of Ruybrasil nuts mixed with candied mango and orange from a bowl on a table with a varnished nosehorn foreleg for a pedestal.
Raptor features pinched tighter. Jaume wondered how the Chief Minister might look if he approved of something. If he ever did.
“A member of the Brotherhood of Reconciliation,” Mondragón said. “As we suspected.”
“The cult of assassins?” Falk said. “Absurd. They aren’t real.”
Mondragón produced a dagger wrapped in reed paper. He set it on the table next to the Emperor and carefully unwrapped it. Its blade was wavy.
“Apparently they are,” he said. “You recognize the pattern, surely—mind that, Majesty. Sometimes there’s contact poison smeared on the blade, away from the edge to catch the unwary.”
With fingertips Felipe picked up the dagger by its pommel. “The Brotherhood indeed,” he said. “Who was their target, d’you think?”
“Who else but your Majesty?” Falk said hoarsely.
“Surely not,” said Mondragón. “They know the consequences.”
“What do you mean?” Falk said.
“The Brotherhood of Reconciliation is a chartered order of the Creator Maia,” Jaume said. He smiled. “A charitable order, as it happens.”
“You mean the Empire countenances assassination?” Falk’s face had gone purple.
“Not as such,” Mondragón said. “It remains, of course, illegal. However, as a practical matter, such things—deplorable as we may find them—will occur. Over the decades, the Imperio has discovered the most judicious course is that they be handled as … regularly as possible. We do not condone acts of murder, nor do we look the other way.”
“But if this sect exists only to murder—”
“Ah, but it doesn’t, your Grace,” said Jaume. “It conducts a full schedule of devotions and benevolent works. Just as my own Companions do.”
Falk looked puzzled. “Your Companions? Your company of Dinosaur Knights?”
“They are an Order Militant of la Iglesia Santa,” Mondragón said, “like the Knights of the Yellow Tower and the Sisters of the Wind. As the Companions’ Captain-General, Don Jaume holds ecclesiastical rank equivalent to a Cardinal.”
“Indeed? An order? I hadn’t realized.”
“Certain parties within Creators’ House and at court find our existence as scandalous as you seem to find the Brotherhood’s,” Jaume said with a smile.
Falk shook his head as if to clear water from his ears. “I don’t understand. They’re assassins. But they aren’t.”
“Some are assassins,” Jaume said. “A messy situation and not particularly pleasing.”
“But surely you punish assassins!”
“We hunt them down assiduously,” Mondragón said. “And kill them. The Brotherhood disclaims responsibility for any unlawful acts its adherents perform. As for those we succeed in capturing and putting to death—one gets the impression the order’s elders believe we’re doing them a service by weeding out the unfit.”
“Outrageous!” Falk said. “Such corruption should never be tolerated.”
“Some might say the same of rebellion, your Grace.”
Jaume had tossed the words out carelessly. But the Alemán turned a burning blue glare on him.
“Your Grace, I apologize,” he said hastily. “I spoke without thinking. Whatever the past, you’ve stepped forward and made honest submission to our Emperor.”
For a moment Falk’s eyes bored into Jaume’s like sapphire drills. Then Felipe chuckled. He had an easy laugh.
“Ah, that’s my dear nephew,” he said. “Always hot-blooded! Youth and enthusiasm can overwhelm the coolest head, ¿qué no? Maybe that’s the reason governing is commonly left to the old. Isn’t that so, Pablito?”
“Indubitably,” the minister murmured. “But I wouldn’t call your Majesty old.”
Felipe flicked air with the fingers of his right hand. “My young lord Falk is quite the eager harrier too, according to reports. And later, Jaumet, you’ll give me your full personal account of the affair del Norte in private.”
Jaume steepled his hands before him and bowed in his chair, as was correct for his station and situation. He enjoyed a certain amount of court rigmarole—in moderation. It reminded him of an ancient ritual dance, with the grace and beauty that implied.
“The truth is, Falk my boy,” the Emperor said, “the Brotherhood would never dare lift a finger against a seated Emperor, or any member of his family. That would quite cross the line, now, wouldn’t it?”
He chuckled again. “They know perfectly well that if they ev
er did anything remotely like that, I, or whoever sat the Fangèd Throne, would have no choice but to nip right ’round to his Holiness the Pope, and see their charter revoked right smartly. And then dig them out, root and branch.”
Nipping around to his Holiness was convenient too, inasmuch as the Holy Church of Nuevaropa’s headquarters were right below in La Merced, around the north edge of circular Bahía Alegre.
Falk’s eyes gleamed with a different light than the cold fire he’d directed at Jaume. “Put me in charge, your Majesty! I pray you.” His guttural accent lent fervor to his Spañol. “I’ll root out the hada for you in no time.”
Felipe laughed aloud in delight, and his hazel eyes gleamed. But he shook his head.
“Not unless they cross that line, my fine young dragon! To upset our arrangement with the Brotherhood would cause chaos. And what’s the use of having an Emperor, then? In fact, what’s the use of an Empire, if not to provide order?”
Felipe’s vehemence made Falk sit spear-upright. “Of course, your Majesty! Order. That is a sovereign’s first duty.”
Mondragón cleared his throat. “If we might return to the issue of our intruder’s intended target, my lords—”
Falk scowled. His heavy blue-black brows were well suited for it.
“It must have been someone close to your Majesty,” Falk declared.
“One takes that more or less for granted,” Mondragón said with some asperity, “given where we found him.”
Falk shot him a quick glare. Then, too heartily, he said, “As you say, Chief Minister.”
He recovers quickly, Jaume thought. It was certainly to the Duke’s credit. In Spaña, Northerners had a reputation for brick-headed stubbornness. Which during his recent mission Jaume had not exactly found unwarranted.
Then again he could say as much of far too many Nuevaropan grandes. The Duke of Hornberg displayed a flexibility of mind more frequently associated with the allegedly subtle South.
“Our most urgent question is: Who sent him?” Falk said.
Mondragón cocked a brow at Jaume. “What do you think?”
Crossing one leg over the other, Jaume waved an easy hand. “Our Alemán friend is doing quite well on his own. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
He savored the irony. Ordinarily Mondragón regarded him with dour suspicion, as a lightweight and possible subversive. Perhaps even a heretic. Some at high levels of both Church and Empire regarded Jaume as such, for preaching that hedonism served the Creators’ will, and that the aristocracy had a duty to serve the common folk, not just be served by them.
But now Mondragón clearly looked upon Jaume as an ally against this bumptious Alemán.
“Could it be those Providence devils I’ve heard so much about since I got here?” Falk asked. “They sound like a nest of heretics in dire need of purging. Who knows what they might be capable of?”
Mondragón smiled. “The Garden of Beauty and Truth, as this new sect in East Francia styles itself, draws heavily upon the teachings of our own Count Jaume for their doctrines,” he said with acerbic relish.
“No one’s more faithful than my Jaumet!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Mind you, these Providence types do seem to take things to extremes. But they’ve given never a whiff of disloyalty, Falk, dear boy.”
“Who’s most at odds with your Majesty, then?” Falk asked.
“That rogue of a Count of Terraroja,” Felipe replied at once. “Don Leopoldo. He’s nothing but a damned brigand. He loots trade caravans on the Imperial High Road, calls it tariffs, and claims some musty privilege from the Spañol crown as justification. He defies the Fangèd Throne!”
Jaume’s lips and brow compressed. He couldn’t much fault his uncle’s characterization of Leopoldo, whose Redland County lay eighty kilometers inland of La Merced, up on the arid central Spañol plateau called La Meseta. But even Jaume, whose interest in history ran mostly to phases and fancies of the Imperial arts (including the martial ones), suspected the dispute amounted to no more than the sort of squabbling over prerogatives hidalgos were forever indulging in, from the meanest hedge-knights to kings.
Falk nodded as if Felipe had delivered a revelation straight from the Eight Themselves. “Then it’s obvious, is it not? This upstart hired the assassin to kill—no, no, let me speak!—not your Majesty, but someone near to you. A clear attempt at intimidation!”
Mondragón, whose attempted interjections Falk had overridden, frowned. “He’d never have the wit, surely.”
“Or he has too much,” Jaume said, “to try anything that rash. Attack on any member of the Imperial family is lèse-majesté—a crime worse than treason.”
It was Mondragón’s turn to shoot Jaume a furious look. Falk nodded triumphantly. “Exactly!” he said.
“You really think so?” Obsessed though the Emperor was, he sounded doubtful.
“Of course,” Falk declared, as if that were as certain as Creation itself. Jaume doubted Falk had so much as heard of Leopoldo before a few minutes ago.
Have you already spotted my uncle’s regrettable tendency, he wondered, that when you sing a song he likes, he seldom hears false notes?
“If he’s wicked enough to defy your Majesty,” Falk said, “what limit is there to his evil?”
A gusty sigh escaped from Mondragón. Falk turned to him.
“I know what you’re thinking, my lord,” he said.
To Jaume’s surprise he sounded earnest—and somewhat wounded. If this is acting, he’s got a gift for it.
“Please understand: we of what was once the Princes’ Party never wavered in our loyalty to our Emperor. Nor did we ever raise a voice, far less a blade, against him. We sought only to call attention to the actions of counselors we believed had given him evil advice. In this we acted wrongly. But his Majesty, in his wisdom and mercy, has seen fit to forgive us, earning our devotion anew!”
Jaume really wanted to hear what Mondragón had to say to that, inasmuch as he was Felipe’s main counselor. Although some said that role had been usurped by the Emperor’s disconcertingly mysterious confessor, Fray Jerónimo. But by reflex both Jaume and Mondragón looked to their master for reaction.
Felipe beamed. “Splendid, boy, splendid,” he said. “Such spirit! Was there ever an Emperor so blessed in his servants?”
In the belly of the clock that stood in the corner, a miniature portcullis opened. A silver sackbut with gilded crest emerged to mark the hour with a mournful hoot. Mondragón’s face twitched in irritation.
“Blast. I’m late to another meeting with those confounded Trebs. Forgive me, Majesty—”
Felipe waved a plump hand. “We know how sticky these Griegos are about protocol. Go, and feel free to blame me for delaying you. It’ll annoy them more, and that’s always worthwhile.”
Mondragón bowed to the others. Then he departed with a brisk black and brown swirl.
Jaume rose as well. “I beg your leave as well, Majesty.”
“To be sure, to be sure. On your way, nephew. And thanks for your counsel, as always.”
“My duty and my pleasure.”
As Jaume left, Felipe was turning to Duke Falk with eagerness sculpted in every contour of his face. Jaume felt a pang. Is it wise to leave them alone together like this?
But a duty no less pressing for being far more pleasant summoned him. And after all, nothing he could do could keep Falk from speaking to the Emperor in private, should the Emperor wish.
For all his soft appearance and mild manner, Jaume knew Felipe Delgao Ramírez possessed an iron whim.
Chapter 11
Bocaterrible, Terrible Mouth—Pliosaurus funkei. Short-necked, large-headed, predatory marine reptile; 13 meters long, 40 tonnes. Nuevaropa’s most feared sea monster, a menace to small boats and even prey ashore.
—THE BOOK OF TRUE NAMES
“My Princess.”
Heart in throat, Melodía spun. He stood behind her, smiling.
Surrounded by trellised honeysuckles rioting with yellow
and white blooms, a table sat in a courtyard garden inside the palace itself. A modest collation awaited on it: petite roasted scratchers, a cold haunch of red-tailed springer, goat cheese, flat bread, and bowls of fruit.
“I wondered why Pilar brought me here,” Melodía said. She had bathed away the dust and sweat of the morning’s exercise and was dressed in a skirt of purple and yellow tröodon feathers with a matching gorget hung around her neck.
“I arranged it,” Jaume said as they embraced. To her frustration he quickly pulled away. “A little cuatralas told me your guardian tyrant might be indisposed for a while.”
“Doña Carlota? Yes. She came down with a toothache during morning practice, and had to rush to the apothecary to have a tooth pulled. Wait—surely you didn’t arrange that?”
“I’m not that clever. I merely saw my chance, and took it.”
“She’s so unreasonable. Abigail’s dueña makes sure she has a stock of contraceptive herbs. I have to sneak around like a thief.”
“We’re lucky she doesn’t supply the girl with poisons too.”
“I don’t think Abi needs help with that. They play for serious stakes in Sansamour’s court.”
“They do everywhere,” he said. “Even here in the pleasure dome of La Merced.”
She laughed. “You can’t mean that! Intrigues here are harmless. They’re all about which duchess is sleeping with whose hadrosaur-groom. Or which duke is.”
“No court has only harmless intrigues,” Jaume said. “Ask the man found in your apartments last night.”
Her face stiffened. She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” Jaume said.
She made herself smile and turn back. “You taught me the truth is always beautiful, no matter what it is. So I shouldn’t be afraid to face it.”
They sat across from one another. During her lover’s half-year absence, Melodía had at times felt as if she was going to become the first person in history to actually die of lust. With him here before her, smelling of clean, warm male flesh, sounding like music, and looking like a dream, she found herself reluctant to spoil the delicious anticipation. Now she wanted to draw this out, allow the tension to build, slowly, slowly.