A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  Rokha’s full mouth pulled to one side in a wry grimace. “That should teach you not to go along with someone just because they tell you what you want to hear.”

  Adora’s response to the unfairness of the other woman’s argument never left her lips. Rokha chose that moment to descend into darkness. The air grew colder and more damp. When they stepped on the broad landing, a glow of light came from the guardroom below.

  “Stay close,” Rokha muttered as she crept down the stairs, each foot placed in front with care. Adora trailed her right hand along the wall and matched her pace. They came into the light of the guardroom, where a pair of guards with drawn swords stood facing them. When they spotted the women, confusion eased the glare each man wore, but they made no move to sheathe their weapons. Down a hallway, where Adora assumed the cells lay, a cry of agony bounced from the stone before trailing off to be followed seconds later by another.

  “Did the duke send you?” the guard on the left asked. The other guard circled around to their right, toward Adora.

  Rokha nodded. A brief sound of struggle came from one of the cells near the guardroom and another man’s scream, lower, filled the space between the walls. “He wants the prisoners kept alive until the battle is over.”

  Doubt showed on the guard’s face and the other guard edged nearer to Adora. He had light hair and close-set cruel eyes lit by surprise. “That’s the princess.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Rokha snapped. “The princess escaped.”

  The first guard shifted his attention to Adora. His scrutiny slid across her face with an almost physical touch before it landed on her hair.

  “Kill them.”

  The guard closest to Adora rushed, darting through tables with an agility that surprised her. She drew and parried in the same motion, the clash of steel stinging her hand. He pressed, hacking at her with broad strokes. With each parry, shock numbed her arm for a split second, preventing her riposte. The next blow nearly struck the sword from her grip.

  He came at her again with a vast overhand chop, forcing her back as his blade struck sparks from the floor. She jumped for the nearest table, rolling across it to place it between her and the guard. She flexed her arm, tried to force blood and feeling back into it.

  He grinned at her, edged toward the table, laughing as he kicked it against her. She danced back, then dodged as he upended the barrier and sent it crashing toward her. The space between them cleared, and he came toward her, his sword forward, ready for another of those brutal chopping strokes.

  She had to attack. If she didn’t, he would wear her down until she couldn’t hold her weapon. Worms of fear writhed in her gut as she forced her sword into line and moved forward. With an evil chuckle, the guard copied her. With a quick beat against his blade she skipped forward. As the guard brought his sword back to parry, she let her point slip beneath his and, carried by her momentum, lunged into a thrust that took him in the chest.

  He died with his surprise still in his eyes.

  When she turned, the other guard lay dead and Rokha was sprinting toward the cells. Adora followed, averting her eyes after she saw Master Quinn sprawled like a broken marionette inside the first cell. A flurry of sword strokes sounded in the gloom ahead of her.

  With a twisting thrust, Rokha put Weir’s executioner down. A ring of keys fell from his hand, clinking like small brass bells against the floor. The smell of blood filled the prison. Rokha was covered with it. Ru’s daughter flipped the keys toward her. “Find him.”

  Adora caught the ring with her free hand. “You’re not coming?”

  Rokha shook her head. “I might be able to save some of these men. Send healers down here as quickly as you can.”

  Adora continued down the hall calling Errol’s name as she went. Oh, Deas. What if she had already passed him? She tried calling again, but sobs choked the sound, mocking her. Voices and hands came through the small barred windows, but none of them belonged to him.

  Then she heard him, his voice warm as the promise of a midday sun breaking through clouds. The keys trembled in her hands, and she cursed their defiance. When the door opened at last, she filled his arms, crying his name as his hand stroked her hair while her tears wet his filthy clothes.

  8

  Ruin

  HE HELD HER CLOSE, drinking in the scent of winter on her hair, savoring the longing for the Sprata it woke in him. Over her shoulder, Martin’s grin held a rakish look, while Luis’s contained something bittersweet, hinting at a story and perhaps yet another secret, but Errol no longer felt the need to know everything.

  Adora pushed him back, scrubbing tears from her eyes. “You stink.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to the innkeeper about the accommodations.”

  Martin chuckled and pulled at the jaw muscles of his large bluff face. “It’s probably too late to do that now. I think there’s been a change of management. How many men did you bring with you?”

  Adora shook her head, and her face grew hard, harder than Errol remembered ever seeing it. “There was only Rokha and me down here, Pater. Weir’s guards started killing prisoners as soon as we arrived.”

  “Is it over?”

  She shrugged. “It may only have just begun. We came straight here. Everyone else is at the palace.”

  An image of Liam in danger dropped against Errol’s stomach like a stone. “I need your sword.”

  Adora shook her head. “There’s a staff in the guardroom. Rokha grabbed it for you.”

  He nodded his thanks and left, expecting Adora to remain behind with Martin and Luis. Instead she followed him, her strides matching his in the narrow hallway. He thought of telling her to stay with Martin and Luis, or to head back to the city, to safety, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. He removed as much of his longing for her from his voice as he could. “If you’re with me, I won’t be able to concentrate on fighting.”

  She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. “We will speak of this later, Earl Stone. There are some levers you should not use.”

  He nodded, kept his face impassive even as he steeled himself. “I would use anything to keep you safe.” He watched her expression flash from surprise to affection to annoyance before she growled in surrender.

  “Go then.” Kissing his cheek, she rushed back into the dungeon’s bowels.

  He passed Rokha, who tossed him a staff. His hands slid along the grain until it balanced in his grip. Caution slowed him despite the urgency driving him forward. In the dark, one unseen arrow or sword stroke could kill him, and he needed to live for now. Yet when he crested the stairs and entered the courtyard, only servants and women streaming away from the royal palace could be seen.

  He moved against the tide until he came within sight of the palace entrance. Even at that distance it was plain fighting had ceased. Men in blue stood bunched outside, their swords bared but hanging at their sides. Few of them bore signs of fighting; they pressed forward instead, listening.

  Errol circled around until he came to the entrance at the kitchens, where a knot of watchmen with bows and arrows nocked stood just inside, protected from attack but covering the yard. “Stand,” one of them said. “State your business.”

  He lifted his staff overhead. “I’m Errol Stone. I’ve come for Liam.”

  “Approach.”

  Twenty paces brought him close enough to identify the speaker as Sergeant Fann, slender, dark-haired, and even better with a bow than a sword. “You know me, Fann. Let me pass.”

  He lowered his bow, and Errol felt a knot loosen at the base of his neck. “Aye, pass. Captain Liam is in the throne room with the others.” He growled something else under his breath Errol couldn’t make out.

  He passed through their midst and made his way up the servants’ staircase toward the grand hall. At the top of the stairs, two more men of the watch guarded the way, their swords clean, but their expressions grim. What had happened here?

  The stairwell opened out onto a hallway wide enough for fifteen me
n to march abreast. Carnage met his gaze. The battle to take the Weir had been costly. Dozens of bodies—mostly blue-clad guards but dotted with those of black-garbed watchmen—littered the floor, and little rivulets of blood filled the space between flagstones. The survivors of each side had formed up in ranks opposite each other—tense, ready to fight.

  Errol walked their length in a bizarre imitation of a commander at parade. Lieutenants of the watch nodded him past until he came to the throne room, where splashes of crimson painted the floor and furniture alike. Cruk stood to one side, using his teeth and right hand to knot a bandage around a shallow wound in his left arm. He punctuated each jerk on the cloth with a muttered curse in his graveled voice.

  Duke Weir, his brother, and Benefice Dane stood at one end, Dane smiling as if the swords leveled at them by soldiers of the watch were his to command. Liam, Reynald, Merodach, and Rale stood a few paces away speaking in tones Errol couldn’t hear, but their gestures radiated tension.

  Rale saw him, beckoned him over.

  “Good to see you alive, lad.”

  He nodded, unsure of what to say.

  Rale must have caught his confusion. “Duke Weir bargains—so far successfully—for his life.”

  The reason behind Dane’s triumphant smile became clear. Errol’s face heated as though someone had placed a torch beneath it. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to beat Dane senseless, thrash him until that insolent grin disappeared. “If he is using the members of the Judica and the conclave as leverage, he doesn’t have any. Rokha is freeing them now.”

  Rale nodded in approval, but nothing in his countenance changed. “Look out the windows behind the throne and tell me what you see.”

  Errol moved to peer through one of the large clear panes framed with stained glass. In the moonlight beyond, ships crowded the harbor, each one with a brazier as big across as a man was tall and filled with fire. Rale edged in beside him.

  Errol pointed at the flaming lights. “He can’t be stupid enough to fire on the palace.”

  Rale snorted. “No, Weir plays a more dangerous game. Unless we free him and make him king, he’ll fire the ships. Illustra’s best chance to defend the strait against Merakh will end up as so much charcoal at the bottom of the harbor.”

  Errol stared at Rale, convinced his heart had quit beating. “You’re considering this?” He almost shouted.

  Rale’s eyebrows lowered until his eyes became slits over his broad nose. “He will not be king,” he whispered. He pointed at the other captains with his chin. “We are agreed. But Merakhi longboats are no match in a fight for the high-decked cogs Weir commands. If we do not diminish their numbers in the strait, we will find ourselves spread along a front that stretches the length of the southern provinces. We’ll be fighting from Basquon through Talia to Lugaria.”

  “He’s a traitor and a murderer, Rale.” He couldn’t quite keep the pleading from his voice. “If we leave him alive, he’ll betray us the first chance he gets.”

  “I agree,” Cruk said from behind. “Pure foolishness to leave a viper in our midst.”

  Captain Reynald joined them, his face twisted as if he argued both sides within himself. “The archbenefice and the primus are on their way. They will speak for the church and the conclave. I think I would like all the captains to speak for the watch.”

  Cruk grunted. “You are our senior, Reynald. It’s your place.”

  The captain sighed, then shook his head. “We’re looking at a two-front war come spring. Now’s not the time to stand on tradition. All the captains will speak.” He turned to face Errol, his manner formal. “Earl Stone, though your captaincy is, strictly speaking, honorary, I believe your voice should be heard.”

  Errol sighed. “Then you’ll probably want to hear from Martin and Luis as well. They’re in the cells beneath the barracks.”

  They moved to a private audience chamber beside the throne room, exchanging the vaulted ceilings and stained glass for a windowless space with simple, comfortable chairs surrounding a wide table that could seat twenty. Errol inhaled through his nose, caught a suggestion of the musty, old-man’s scent he associated with Rodran.

  In the king’s absence, the head of the table remained empty. Reynald sat at the third chair, leaving the first two empty as well. The rest of the captains seated themselves in no particular order after him. Errol took the chair next to Captain Indurain, a tall rangy Basqu with a hooked nose. He acknowledged Errol’s presence with a nod but didn’t speak.

  Duke Weir and his contingent came in under guard. Weir glowered and moved to sit at the head of the table.

  Reynald pointed to one side. “Remove the duke’s party to the corner until Archbenefice Canon determines his status at these negotiations.”

  Weir’s eyes widened, and he chewed his lower lip in outrage, but Dane laughed as if at a jest. They sat for the next few minutes in uncomfortable silence until Martin and Luis entered, followed by the archbenefice and the primus.

  Bertrand Canon, leader of the church in Illustra, seated himself to the left of Rodran’s vacant chair and scowled, his grizzled eyebrows lowering like storm clouds. His trembling finger pointed at Weir. “Can someone explain to me why he’s still alive?”

  “I live because I hold the fate of Illustra in my hands.”

  Canon’s eyes became shards of ice. “You will address me as Archbenefice.”

  Dane cleared his throat. “Please allow me to answer your query, esteemed archbenefice.” He bowed deeply, his eyes reduced to slits by a sarcastic grin. “Duke Weir has commanded that the entire fleet be put to the torch unless he is made sovereign of Illustra, as is his right, most holy one. If a message is not conveyed to the ships in his hand by daybreak, they will all burn.”

  Canon eyed Dane as if he were a bug that had somehow appeared in his porridge. He leaned toward Sten. “I think I prefer the duke’s form of disrespect. Is this true, Reynald?”

  The captain spread his hands. “We do not know, Archbenefice, but I think it likely. Duke Weir strikes me as the sort of man who would happily destroy the kingdom if he could not rule it.”

  Enoch Sten nodded. “Quite.”

  “Quite,” Weir echoed, his face hard and resolute. “Magis stole the crown from my ancestor. The rule of Illustra belongs to me.”

  “If you believe that,” Martin said, “let the conclave cast for the rightful king.”

  Dane pointed at Errol. “So you can have your tame omne proclaim the result you desire? Hardly.”

  At the edge of Errol’s vision, Luis whispered to Martin, who paled and then nodded. He turned toward the archbenefice, unwilling to comment further. Canon addressed the primus, Enoch Sten. “My friend, how long would it take you to test the duke’s assertion?”

  Sten caught Luis’s gaze. “It’s a simple yes or no cast, Archbenefice. The secondus can check for one answer while I check the other. The omne can verify. Perhaps ten minutes.”

  Canon shook his head. “No. I mean you no disrespect, Secondus, but I can see by your appearance that you have suffered misuse at the duke’s hands. I would not give outsiders the excuse of saying we acted out of a desire for vengeance.”

  Luis bowed from the neck. “Of course, Excellency.” His hand dipped into his cloak. “I took the liberty of retrieving a few blanks on the way here. Primus?”

  Sten accepted the blocks with a nod of thanks. Twenty minutes later, during which time Weir and his contingent had worn various expressions of superiority, the primus sighed and waved one hand in disgust. “The duke, on this occasion, is speaking the truth. He will destroy the ships.”

  “Of course,” Weir said. “The throne of Illustra is mine.”

  “Perhaps,” Enoch Sten said, “we do not require the duke’s ships so much as he would like us to believe.”

  Weir laughed a series of barks in Sten’s direction. “Stick to your little blocks of wood, old man. Even your pitiful captains have more sense. Illustra is facing a two-front war. There’s no way to g
et enough men to the Ladoga Pass to keep the Morgols from flooding through once the snow melts. The kingdom’s only hope of avoiding defeat is to sink the Merakhi ships in the Forbidden Strait. If they can’t land, they can’t fight.”

  Errol struggled to breathe. Were they seriously considering giving Weir the throne? After everything he had done?

  The archbenefice leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the small paunch of his old-man’s belly as he regarded the duke. “Of course, one of the questions we must consider is what kind of kingdom we would have under the duke’s rule.”

  Benefice Dane favored the archbenefice with an indulgent smile. “Surely you’re not suggesting being conquered by the Merakhi or Morgols is preferable to rule by one of Illustra’s oldest and most venerated houses?”

  “No,” the archbenefice said, drawing out the word. “What I am suggesting is that rule by Duke Weir would be indistinguishable from that of the Merakhi or Morgols.”

  He turned to address Captain Reynald as Dane sputtered. “What say you, Captain? Can we win a two-front war?”

  “With your permission, Archbenefice, I would ask all of the captains to speak to this matter, including honorary captain, Earl Stone.”

  Across the table, Benefice Dane clapped his hands in applause. “Oh, by all means, let us hear from the peasant. Perhaps he can tell us which roots in the forest are edible.”

  Bertrand Canon’s voice dipped, became almost a whisper, but in the unexpected silence it carried to every corner of the table. “The duke is bargaining for his life, Benefice Dane. So far he has made no request concerning yours. Do you understand?”

  Duke Weir’s brother spluttered his indignation. “How dare you threaten a benefice of the church?”

  The archbenefice snorted. “Don’t you mean your son, Benefice Weir? Be silent or I shall ask the primus to cast and see whether or not you’ve compounded a break of your vows with the additional crime of raising your illegitimate son to wear the red of a benefice.”

  He turned from their reddened faces as if they no longer existed. “Captain Elar, what say you?”