Pouchii was silent. He kept his mind focused on Hestia.
“You see, you don’t. You’re just as much a servant and a thrall as any other man. Someone’s ordered you to kill me, and you do it. Unquestioningly. Is that nobility?” Takka smiled.
“I know why I’m doing this.” Pouchii levelled the gun. The grip was cold as ice. As frosty as Hestia.
“Really? Do you know what the Viscount Connection is?” Takka laughed lightly, mockingly, at Pouchii’s silence. “Would you like me to explain?”
“Go ahead.” Pouchii motioned with the gun.
“Quite right, we’ve got to pass the time somehow.” The Viscount stretched his emancipated fingers energetically. “You see, back when I headed the government, I had a strong sense of conviction, of belief, in the supreme power of our queen. Monarchy is just such a strong system. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, the people didn’t share this great conviction. They had some quaint little idea that they could run themselves. So, being the consummate politician that I am, I stood for that. And I won the election.”
“On a false promise.” It wasn’t a question.
“But only because people didn’t realise what they needed. Anyway, after many years of faithful service, I decided that I would finally dedicate myself fully to my cause. I went to our monarch, and asked her if there was anything we could do to consolidate her authority.”
“To destroy democracy.”
“To remove an unsavoury system. To further the greater good. Liberty is not good for poor people, you know. It corrupts them, and makes them feel they are entitled to more than they are. They should know their place. But anyway, our great queen and myself decided on a cause of action so ingenious it would change Saliman for ever, and return once again to power our glorious absolute monarchy.”
“To reduce us to slavery.”
“Serfdom, DCI, serfdom. There is a great difference. A slave driver is not noble. A lord is. But we digress. I dreamt of a world where we could all live in harmony, in peace, in prosperity. Is that such an evil dream? No, of course not. It’s a dream worth dying for. So I did. I let myself disappear, let my body be discovered, let all think I was dead, murdered on the orders of the queen. We let the rumours spread and spread, hoping beyond all hope that you lunatic left wingers would rise up in indignation.”
“And so we did.”
“Yes, you fell for our trap hook, line and sinker.” Takka smiled.
“So what happens next?”
“All you rabid little paupers and revolutionaries will rise up, trample through the streets with your pitchforks, wave your red flags and sing till your throats burst.” He laughed, his eyes sparkling with mockery. “And then the flower of Saliman’s chivalry will thunder down the streets, swords drawn, horses bedecked in coloured tabards, bellowing the battle cries of our forefathers. We’ll run them to the ground and slaughter them to a man, removing all those who dare to oppose the majesty of our monarch.”
“And then?” Pouchii let a thin smile cross his steely lips.
“Then I come out of hiding, make up some nonsense about being imprisoned by you lefties in order to cause the attempted revolution, and declare myself for the queen. Unchecked, she will arise resplendent, regal, imperial, with me at her side. The glory of our nobility will ride again. And the poor will tremble.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong.” Pouchii spoke out, eyes blazing. “We will never tremble. Come what may on that battlefield today, our people will never tremble. What is our life worth if we are enslaved? We have nothing to lose but our chains. You nobles, with their horses and honour and haughtiness, have everything. But that doesn’t mean you can sit back and relax. It just means you have more to lose. And lose it you shall.
“No monarch rules in South Saliman, no queen lives in the slums. You nobles are terrified of us, scared of the cobbled streets. You try to clean it up, try to remove the threat, but it comes back again and again. The unwashed masses will not wash. But they will cry out for liberty. And your plot will not win out. Because when they rise up, they will rise up with one voice. Unless your knights plan to kill us all, to destroy our whole city, they will never destroy our principles. But even death is not the end for liberty.
“Because the people out there, fighting for the names of my people, have spirit. They have belief, pride, and an almost religious fervour for their liberty. Your poncy knights don’t stand a chance. With your queen dead, the limbs of knights decorating the streets and society free at last, the people will no longer need a plebiscide like you to direct their every move. Aristocracy will pass into the annals of history, and the people will run their own futures. We are your doom. We are the present, past and future. We are hope, optimism, freedom. We dare to dream of equality, dare to stand up for our perfect society. And you will not stop us.”
“You pauper. You know nothing.” Takka’s lips had thinned.
“On the contrary, Viscount Takka, I know everything.” Pouchi paused. “Everything except my place.”
“And when to pull that trigger.” Takka frowned at the gun. “You little coward. Could you kill me? Really?”
“Trust me, nothing could be easier.” Pouchii smiled, confidently. Hestia danced on his lips.
“Murder is a big word for a little man.”
And then the bullets smashed into the Viscount’s chest, sending him shuddering backwards into the back of his chair. He slumped, his eyes glazing with death, and stared in wonderment into Pouchii’s eyes.
“I have one last thing to say to you.” Pouchii crossed the room and leant in by Takka’s ear, whispering as he passed into the void.
“I’m fucking your wife.”
He crossed back to the door, and left. Takka groaned out his life behind him.
Pouchii emerged from the stairway, his hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. SSS men stood around, quiet and watchful, looking out for the slightest sign of trouble. The General turned to him.
“Did you find anything?” His tone was innocent, but the smile on his lips was grimmer and more brutal.
“The Viscount Takka is dead.” He spoke drily.
“At the hands of our cruel queen, no doubt?”
“We must assume so.” Pouchii didn’t look at him. “What depths of depravity she stoops to, so she can keep her vice-like grip on our people.”
“Indeed.” The General smiled again. “Depraved indeed.”
“What news of the battle?” Pouchii tried desperately to turn the conversation around.
“None, I am afraid. But the Lieutenant here...” He gestured to a tall SSS officer in particularly dashing cloak. “...Claims he can hear men climbing the long stairs to the keep entrance.”
“So someone is coming?”
“Yes.” The General smiled again.
“Who will doubtless find us and cut us to shreds?” Pouchii was almost shouting.
“Keep your voice down.” The General kept the grin on his face. “I suppose they probably will, with all likelihood. The queen has probably won, and all is lost.”
“Then why the hell aren’t we getting out of here?” Pouchii hissed.
“Because there would be no point.” The General kept smiling. “Even if we could escape, the queen would pursue us to the furthest corners of the universes and slice us into little pieces. Far better to die here, bravely, as heroes.”
“I’d rather be alive.”
“Sadly that doesn’t seem to be an option.” The General was infuriating Pouchii now. “Everything seems a little bit pointless now, doesn’t it? All the grand words, cruel acts, petty squabbling.”
“Yes.” And Pouchii meant it for a second. And then she was on his mind again, bright and fiercely cold, spearing straight into his heart. She wouldn’t stand and die. She would fight. Indeed, she probably was, even now. Out there in that battered tent, sword drawn and surrounded. She wouldn’t give up. She would die a proper hero, surrounded by bodies. He turned to the General.
“No.
There is still a reason. We still have purpose.
“Out there, our friends died for democracy, for peace. I for one am not going to stand and die here like an idiot. I am going to die defending our principles, our revolution, to the last. Even if I die a death a million times more agonising than it needs to be, I will die with red flag in my hand, defying this jumped up monarch, this murderess!”
“Fine words, DCI, but do you have a flag?” The General’s smile grew.
"I don’t need a flag. I just need a cause.” He paused. “Through there...” He gestured at the great door barring the corridor. “...Is her majesties imperial throne room. Who needs a flag, when you can die refusing a queen her right to sit on her throne? Who needs a flag, when oppression cannot resume it’s seat? Who needs a flag, when you have a dozen passionate guns.”
Even the General was aroused by that passionate address. His men, normally quiet and composed, almost shouted out their agreement, each one gripping his crossbow with fresh vigour, although not one pointed out his clear continuity mistake.
“Come.” He spoke quietly now, attempting to get them back to their composed state. “Let us take back our liberties.”
He turned to the door, to the vast whiteness that seemed to be sliced from the cold blank rock of the Klagen. He stepped over the body of the guard, riddled with crossbow bolts, with blood oozing out over the pretty golden armour and the light blue cloak, and gave it a shove. It creaked.
He turned his shoulder to it. Now he was up close, he could see that it wasn’t made of stone at all, but painted wood. Like everything the queen touched, it was fake. A facade. He pushed, hard, putting his shoulder into the ageing timbers. They groaned again. Splinters slipped through his uniform, biting into his arm. He cursed.
And then one of the SSS men was beside him, shunting his shoulder into the door, grunting loudly, his face filling with optimism once he realised that it was simply wood. But it still held.
And then there was another man, and another. They leant into it, grunting and throwing their hearts and minds into the battle. Shoulder after shoulder joined them, until Pouchii felt one particular shoulder slide in next to his own. He looked into the pessimistic face of the General, but, even as the door began to crumble, it turned from wild pessimist to passionate revolutionary. His eyes cleared, and shone out as the white facade shuddered once more, and came tumbling down, in a shower of dust and plaster, as splinters flew everywhere and the SSS men gave great shouts of joy. They had removed the last obstacle between them and their oppressors. Victory was in sight, even if death was not far behind.
They walked together through the shattered doorway, over the shards of wood and crumpled patches of opulent carpet. As one they gazed up at the startling golden ceiling, specked with black pinpricks, like a night sky gone wrong. They traced the pure white walls with their eyes, inspected the giant statues of monarchs that lined them, and spat collectively in the faces of more unpopular ones, like Saliman Saliman II, and Bariss Saliman, alongside that of the current queen. One of the men even swung a mailed fist into the statue’s head, snapping it clean off, and throwing the sphere of marble to the ground.
Then the throne towered above them, pure white, incorruptible, a pinnacle of imperialism almost as splendid as the Klagen itself. The men grouped around it, fearful and angry all at once, not daring to take another step and yet each wanting to end this charade of a regime.
They seemed to wait an age, just standing there in awe. For centuries, the monarchs of Saliman had ruled the largest empire in the four universes from this blessed seat. Here had sat Saliman Saliman I, ruling from Mythicalsis to Zelnozeepadi, Bella Saliman, from Erodium to Brézé, and Marcus Saliman III, from Trollius to Penstemon. From this seat, the universes had been conquered. Whoever sat here was feared like no other.
Pouchii drew back his lips and spat into the throne, bitterly. The men around him almost physically pulled back from him, terrified, so he spat again. His eyes sneered in contempt, and he turned his back on the chair, turned his back on monarchy. Finally, the men around him followed his lead and broke ranks, some spitting, some walking, and one even urinating on the cold white stone. The mighty fell.
Suddenly, the beat of marching feet started to reverberate through the stone walls. Pouchii turned to the doorway. Someone was coming. Someone with war on their minds. The SSS men fell in behind him, taking up stations around the throne room, ready for their last stand. They rallied around the defiled seat, armed and desperately passionate. This was it.
Six knights in black and gold livery entered, swords drawn and their tabards bloodied and blackened with the fervour of battle. Each had his helm fastened firmly down, each seemed barely tired by the extremes of battle they had just endured.
"Halt!” Pouchii shouted, his mind confused by the implications of the livery; not only were they the colours of the Sethlons, but also of the Von Fredericks. “Who comes to this throne room?”
The SSS men tilted their crossbows waiting for an answer. Silence stood still.
“Who else dares to wear the black and gold?” One of the knights boomed. “Are you for or ‘gainst the queen?”
“Against.” Pouchii answered, his pistol barely wavering for a second. “Now you.”
“What queen?” The knight laughed. “She lies in yonder field, her head taken from her shoulders, for the glory of house Sethlon.”
The silence that followed was broken by the relieved boom of laughter that erupted from the General. Weapons lowered, and Pouchii heard his men murmuring prayers and thanks to their various deities. The knights too broke the tension, sheathing their steel and letting their shields drop to their sides.
“Aye, the battle is won.” A voice, weary and battered, floated into the chamber. “But at some cost.”
A man, tall and proud, strode in. His tabard was torn and streaked with blood, but the grey bat on his chest still pranced on the red field.
“Your grace.” Pouchii strode over to him. “You come here as victor, do you not?”
“Aye, DCI, I do.” Cavidir nodded. “But my fellows of the centre of our battle line, Duke Von Stike and Viscount Lurkin, lie slain, alongside many of my men. The green deer and the golden magpie will flap no more over our lines.”
“May Rosium guide their souls.” Pouchii bowed his head.
“Of our foes, the Dukes Forik and Petine are dead, by my sword.” His grizzled face scowled. “And the noble Earl of Saliman, the cousin of our queen, is in the ground alongside them. He died in mortal combat with the Viscount Lurkin. They died as one.”
“His soul deserved it.” Pouchii scorned. “His wife was a Von Frederick, no?”
“Aye, it’s true.” Cavidir nodded. “It is better he is dead. Easier for a republic to survive if there are no heirs to the throne.”
“Then the queen is slain?” A great booming voice forced its way into the chamber, followed by the huge bulk of the Earl Harold. “Rosium be praised!”
“My lord!” Cavidir exclaimed. “Aye, she is. And you live!”
“A little.” Harold laughed. “The bastards took both my ears, but not my life. You saw my daughter, late our queen, slain?”
“No.” Cavidir frowned. “I just heard it said.”
“Me too.” Pouchii interjected.
“Then I presume it’s true.” He laughed again. “Rosium, but what a battle! My banner smashed into the mud, my knights decimated, but the enemy broken. The Marquess Von Frederick is no more.”
“By that hammer of yours?” Cavidir smiled.
“No...” He turned. “Where’s the blasted man got to... My lord!”
A man strolled in, calmly, his armour hanging off him in shreds, but the silver crescents that adorned it still shone.
“Yes, Harold?” The Duke Von Kruges raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“This man would like to know by whose sword the Marquess Von Frederick fell, and I fear, if I tell him, he would refuse to believe me.” Harold laughed again.
&n
bsp; “Why, by mine.” Von Kruges answered, haughtily. “In single combat, if you will.”
“Really?” Cavidir laughed too. “The banker’s turned into a knight. How on earth did you manage it?”
“I seem to remember I stabbed him a lot.” Kruges shrugged. “And he sort of died. But anyway.”
“I’m impressed.” Cavidir laughed. “But he always was an arrogant fool.”
“He was a Von Frederick.” Harold growled. “They all are.”
“There can’t be many left.” Cavidir frowned.
“His brother George still lives.” Harold grimaced. “He’s with our prisoners. The coward surrendered.”
“But he’s the last of the scum.” Von Kruges hissed. “Thank Rosium."
The Viscount Connection Page 14