“Aye.” Cavidir nodded.
“And, speaking of scum, where is the queen?” Von Kruges asked.
“Apparently slain, but neither of us know.” Cavidir filled him in. “She was on the flank, facing Sethlon and Catchbridge, and they have yet to arrive here.”
“Then let us pray she is dead.” Kruges crossed himself.
“Who do you talk of?” A cold voice sliced its way into the room, cutting into the white walls like a knife into butter. And then a figure followed it, bedecked in black and gold, his armour looking like it had been raked by fingernails. His sword still rested coolly in his hand. “Whom?” He spoke again.
“Duke Sethlon, thank Rosium you live.” Von Kruges turned to him, his face visibly relieved. “Not that anyone could lay a Sethlon low, but still. We were talking of the queen.”
“It was a close fight, Kruges.” Sethlon spoke sharply. “Many men lie slain. But most wear the gold of the Royal Guard. They are broken, destroyed, obliterated. Steel has fed well today.” The sword glinted, tinted red with blood.
“And the queen?” Harold growled.
“Here.” The proud figure of a young man strode into the chamber, his armour patterned green and blue, bedecked with a silver stallion. His armour clinked as he walked, past Sethlon, to the centre of the chamber, and let an object fall to the white stone floor. It splattered as it hit the ground, staining it red.
“Duke Catchbridge.” Von Kruges ignored the grizzly offering, and turned to the young man. “Well met.”
“View your monarch.” Catchbridge ignored him, and swept his sword arm in the direction of the object.
Sethlon walked up to it, and let his boot nudge up against the matted hair that covered the rear of it. He pushed, disdainfully, and it rolled around, until the eyes and proud nose spun to face the ceiling. Overqueen Hunri Saliman’s face was contorted in a terrific scream for ever, her pupils wide at the horrors she had seen before death, her lips pulled back and her cheeks streaked with salty tears.
“Behold the head of a traitor.” Sethlon sniffed, sharply, and turned his back on her.
“My revenge.” Catchbridge stared into her eyes again, entranced. A smile wavered on his lips. “My father and mother suffered at her hands. Now she has suffered too.”
“My daughter.” Harold approached her, his spirit suppressed for a second. “My whore of a daughter. How the bitch deserved it.” He spat between her eyes, letting it slide down her defiled face and pool in her mouth. Then he, too, turned.
“Dead at last.” Von Kruges stared down into her terrified face. “At last. Saliman is free! To think I lived to see the day...”
“Aye.” Finally, Cavidir walked up to her. “Saliman is free. The Klagen is rid of tyrants!” And he lashed out, his armoured foot connecting with the head and sending it spinning into some dusty corner of the room, letting the few last remnants of blood glitter over the marble white floor. The monarch disappeared into the shadows one last time.
Suddenly Sethlon saw Pouchii from across the room, and he raised a mailed fist to hail him.
“DCI!” He called. “What news?”
“We came upon your sister’s orders, to secure the throne and the viscount.” Pouchii replied, expressionlessly. “But we came across sad tidings.”
“Of Takka, Viscount Momor?” Von Kruges butted in, his face creased with confusion.“Yes.” Pouchii stared straight ahead. “The queen had taken him prisoner, for the sake of her despotic throne. But, before her army left this morning, they cut him down. We found him breathing out his last in the camber above.”
“His final words?” Sethlon interjected.
“Long live democracy. It shall live on beyond me.”
There was a silence for a moment, as heads bowed in reverence to that lie. Even Pouchii dipped his head to the memory of the man he had murdered.
“I would look upon his face one last time.” Von Kruges murmured, respectfully. “He was a great man.”
“Me too.” Cavidir nodded. “He dared to step above politics for his love of his country.”
“And I.” Harold boomed. “He was the hero of this revolution. To him we owe a great debt.”
“Pouchii.” Sethlon stared, his eyes smiling slightly, knowingly, at the DCI. “Take these lords to see his noble face one last time. As for me, I fear I will have to go and assist his grieving widow.”
“Of course, my lord.” Pouchii smiled back. “I am sure your sister will be most saddened.”
“Quite.” The Duke turned, and strolled from the room, his cloak billowing behind him and his armour clanking. “Give the Viscount my thanks for the democracy he has created.” He shouted out over his shoulder.
“I shall, my lord.” Pouchii turned to the three lords. “Sirs, this way, if you please.” And they walked in the direction of the stairs.
The Duke Marcus Sethlon took the white stairs three at a time as he thundered down the centre of the Klagen, his armoured feet sending sparks glittering behind him. They caught and were smothered into nothing by the swishing black and gold fabric that swept after him. His swordblade hung loosely in its scabbard, and scythed through the air as it closed behind him.
In the centre of his angular face, his eyes shone through the darkness, brushing aside the shadows that crisscrossed the passage, and glowing with passionate fury. This war was won, his repressors conquered, and he, the Duke Sethlon, was on top of the world once more. Nothing could stop his sparking feet from making progress.
“Marcus!” A voice blared out from the shadows at the side of the passage, slicing through the darkness and into his ears.
He came to a crashing halt, his cloak swinging closer around him, his feet grinding and glittering against the white stone steps, his sword swishing about his knees. His eyes turned into the blackness.
“Ah.” His lips curved into a smile, like molten steel. “Hestia. I came looking for you.”
“Marcus.” She said again, emerging from the shadows, her ice blue robes clinging to her stiletto figure, her eyes cold and incorruptible. “I’m here.”
“I can see that.” He smiled again, uneasily. “Your husband is dead.”
“I know that.” She smiled this time, her lips like icicles in the thaw. “But he was always dead to me. Surely you knew that.”
“Yes.” His smile shrunk. “He was not a nice man, and I suspect you do not need comfort.”
“Those are two distinct statements.” She let her eyes melt into his. “He was not a nice man. But we all need comfort, sometimes.”
“Then you must find yourself another husband, and quickly.” He turned from her, let his cloak swing around to face her. “But we must speak about the nature of his death.”
“Marcus, I can’t.” She placed a hand on his cloaked shoulder. “No-one else has the nerve, the zeal, the sheer steel...”
There was a pause longer than time itself, the blackness around them enveloping and crushing everything.
“Hestia, I am your brother.” He brushed her off firmly and stared into the far distance beyond her. “I am a Sethlon, for Rosium’s sake...”
“And I am not worthy?” She spat, her voice rising angrily. “The mere widow of a minor viscount, not worthy of his high lordship?”
“I have a wife!” He shouted now. “For Rosium’s sake, woman! Your status has nothing to do with it. You are my hearth, my home. You warm the cockles of my heart, keep my house safe, keep this great Klagen from falling. You are more worthy than a million princesses. But I am not. I am a cold rigid duke, who cares only for steel.”
“You are a Sethlon.” She corrected, with a smile. “But so am I. No-one else understands that inner being, that frosty heart. Takka never understood that. I bet your Anna does not.”
“Does she need to?” He turned again. “Does she need to know what a monster my ancient bloodline makes me? How cold the hearth of a Sethlon is? No. She just needs to care. And she does.”
“And I don’t?” She laid both hands on his sho
ulders now, feeling the raised ridges of steel plate armour beneath his cloak. “I care, Marcus. I care for you more than anyone else. I would lay waste to this entire empire if it meant that you could live on. I would burn the coldest mountains, let the seas run red with blood, let space itself be bathed in slaughter, if it meant we could be...”
“Silence.” He spoke, commandingly. “I must go. We shall speak some time of the murder of your husband.” He pulled his shoulders upwards, and whisked his cloak out from her grasp.
“Marcus. Wait.” Her hand tugged at his gauntlets. “I love you.” Her icy eyes blazed frosty swirls of condensation into the back of his armour, prayed for him to turn his head.
“Sister.” His voice hardened, getting back the cutting edge of well honed steel. “We all forge futures for ourselves. But some futures even the greatest blacksmith cannot hammer out. Forget those words. You will only cut yourself.”
“But it would be worth it, Marcus.” She slipped her hands further into his gauntlets.
“Dreams are painful.” He swept his steel fists up, out of her grasp, and took the first step onto the stairs again. “And, trust me, pain feels twice as agonising once you’ve been happy. Never smile, sister. It only brings the bite of a sword.”
“What a happy mind you have, brother.” She stepped back, away from him. “We must all dream.”
“Yes, but some nights you pray you won’t.” He grimaced. “War doesn’t just leave physical scars.”
“Greatest Loss still pains you?” She swayed towards him, thought the better of it, and swayed back.
“It pains us all.” He shuddered. “Today was too close to that horror. Peace must come. And soon.”
“It shall.” Hestia nodded. “For Rosium’s sake, it shall.”
“I hope so.” He turned back to her. “And forget what I said about husbands. I wouldn’t like to force anyone upon you. Live your own life.”
“Truly?” She swayed towards him again.
“Or as close to it as you can.” He frowned at her again, making her steady and stop. “What right do I have to command you?” He laughed, a feeble, hollow sound, and turned back to the stairs, clattering back up them at quite a pace, his cloak billowing, intact but smouldering from the sparks.
“Thank you.” She called up after him, her cold eyes beaming, before adding, quietly. “Marcus. Keep dreaming.” And then he was gone and the blackness filled up the stairway again.
She shivered slightly in the cold darkness, pulling her icy dress around her, and letting her hands search for the hilt of the steel swordblade she wore around her waist. The feel of the pommel and hilt warmed her; the ability to maim and kill held a strange fascination. Thank Rosium Pouchii had done her dirty work earlier, or else her dead husband would have had to endure hell before he finally croaked out his last. She had never been quick to end things once she held creatures under her sword.
Which reminded her; she would have to talk to that pathetic little policeman again soon. It was useful to have someone utterly under her thrall, but also infuriating, because the idiot wouldn’t stop making eyes at her for months. But she and Marcus were back on speaking terms, which was an improvement. Her brother had never been one to announce his affections, but he was a Sethlon to the core; hard, steely and honourable to the last, but also besotted with the need for someone, anyone, to understand and love him. Hestia had never been able to resist him, even if he was completely out of her reach.
He was utterly in love with her, of course, but decorum and honour would always come first. His protestation that he was married, and that they could never be, was true, but not because of his wife, Anna. He was, as every Sethlon is, married to his lordship, to his duty. He put his sword before his humanity.
But then so did she; her duty was to Saliman, to her people, and they would always come before everything; before family, honour, husband... Just perhaps not her Marcus.
A myriad of colour cascaded over the white stone, blindingly gushing through the streets and burning through the occasional cloud that still hovered above. The city glistened and trilled, birdsong mingling with the shouts of market traders and happy citizens. Saliman basked.
It was dawn, the day after the bloodbath just outside the walls, and the city looked as if nothing had happened to it. After all, it had endured centuries of coups, murders, sieges and general discontent. One more of each was hardly liable to make any difference.
Deep out in the South district, DCI Malcolm Poichii sat at his desk. He had just awoken, from spending the night propped up in his chair, his fingernails digging in to the worn old fabric. His wildest terrors had been stalking him all through the blackness. It had been a rough few days.
Now he just sat and stared into his cup of long-boiled hot chocolate. It was dark and bitter now. Even boiling the water to death hadn’t quite seemed to have got of the horrific aftertaste of South Saliman water. It tasted of a quaint mixture of blood and raw sewage. The battles in the streets above had probably broken some of the pipes. That was generally the reason for foul tasting water. They’d probably manage to get round to fixing it in a year or two. Once the cholera and dysentery started to set in proper.
He spat some of it out onto the floor, and put the mug down on one of the floorboards. He grimaced. They were all an interesting shade of deep maroon now, after he’d shot that assassin. It would take months to get the blood out of the wood grain. If he could be bothered. He supposed he might as well leave it. It didn’t really matter.
He stood up, and gazed out of the broken pane of glass, out onto his Saliman. Finally a smile cracked his face. It did look lighter, freer. It seemed somehow to be rejuvenated. The people who walked the streets were smiling, the policemen who paced alongside them were no longer armed, and no soldiers stood, repressively, over them. The cracks in the window now seemed out of place. The city was ready for reform. Now.
Suddenly, there was a rap at his door. It wobbled slightly, seeming pointless and ineffectual. If the person had wanted, he could have just knocked a little harder, and entered.Pouchii’s hand dropped to his gun, instinctively. He fumbled with the catch, and let it hang loosely by his side as he walked to the portal.
“Yes?” he spoke quietly, standing just to one side of the plastic, defensively.“Malcolm Pouchii?” A voice wafted through the door. It sounded out of place. A North Salimaner accent.“Yes.” Pouchii cocked the gun.
“Message from His Grace the Duke Sethlon.” The voice coughed. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Pouchii breathed a sigh of relief and let the gun slide back onto the desk. He opened the door, letting it sway backwards on its hinges.
“Thank you.” A man in the distinctive black and gold livery of the Dukes Sethlon ducked in through the crumbling doorway. His eyes scanned the battered little flat, and his nose turned upwards.
“Your message?” Pouchii frowned. The man had no right to judge his little corner of Saliman. Not now.
“Of course.” The man gave him a patronising smile. “It is quite brief. The Duke would like to see you at his residence at your leisure. His Grace has matters to consult you on, and would desire your company in addressing the plan for the furthering of the new state.
“Furthermore, her ladyship Hestia Sethlon, the Dowager Vicountess Momor, sends her greetings and would request that you also attend her, after you have met with His Grace.”
“Thank you.” Pouchii smiled. He liked the chap now. He looked a fine figure of a man in his tabard, and his cheekbones shone. Everyone, indeed, seemed lovely. “Did she say anything else?”
“Only to apologise for not seeing you after the battle yesterday.” The messenger sniffed. “She was otherwise engaged with the necessaries of state.”
“Yes, yes.” Pouchii smiled again. “Did she seem happy? Sad? What was she doing?”
“I fear it is not my place to say.” The man frowned again. What a pathetic little fool.
“But she was well?” Poichii beamed now.
“Fantastic, fantastic.” Pouchii grinned. “I will come as soon as I can... Now, actually. Mustn’t keep people waiting.”
“Yes, DCI.” The man allowed himself a sardonic smile. “I fear I must be leave too, but for a different location. There are other lords and men of means who I am charged to contact.”
“You won’t stay and tell me more of the Sethlon household?” Pouchii smiled at the man again.
“No, DCI. I fear there are more pressing engagements.” He turned back to the door, rolling his eyes at the perplexing little idiot. “Good day.”
“Have a wonderful day, sir!” Pouchii shouted out after him. “Long live the revolution!”
The Viscount Connection Page 15