But no, the man did not sit down. Instead, he turned and drew a thin, silver rod from within his robes. This he rapped on the arm of the throne itself. By the third knock, the already quiet room had grown deathly silent.
“Your Graces,” the man called. “Esteemed lords and ladies, presenting His Excellency, Orson Avans, Duke of Ansiri and Lord of the Isles!”
This time, there could be no doubt. Safe from the observant eyes of most of the crowd, Leo stood to get a better look at the man who would decide his fate.
Duke Avans was an older man, roughly the same age as Wyden. Where the count bordered on frail, however, the Duke did not. The man was not fat, precisely, though he did possess the stockiness of age. He walked without difficulty, head high and a thin, golden crown on his brow. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as the Duke ascended the stairs to his throne, and did not release it until the man had seated himself upon it.
Then, turning to the robed man beside him, the Duke gestured.
“Baron Leo VanOrden!” called the man. “His Excellency commands: Come forth and be known.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, Leo did just that. In seconds, every eye in the room was fixed upon him. The suddenness of the gazes nearly made him pause, but Leo forced himself to continue moving. The whispers that sounded in his wake were harder to ignore, but he kept his eyes squarely on the back of Wyden’s head until he reached the man’s side.
Flashing a ghost of a smile, Wyden nodded almost imperceptibly and waved him forward.
“Who approaches?” asked the man.
Leo very nearly sighed at the ridiculousness of it all. Formality was one thing, but the pomp and ceremony were quite another.
“Baron Leo VanOrden,” he replied, struggling to urge to respond sarcastically.
“My Lord Baron,” the Duke’s aide continued. “On the advice and testimony of the Duke’s Counselors, you have been accused of fomenting discord and lawlessness. You have been summoned to give account and present evidence of your innocence.”
Leo waited, but the man did not continue. He swallowed hard, eyeing the Duke’s feet since he could not bring himself to look at the man directly, however much he wanted to.
“Your Excellency,” he began, hesitantly. “I understand that—”
“Ah, Your Excellency?” interrupted a voice from behind him. Leo turned to find Wyden inching his way forward. Without the assistance of his servant, the count made slow progress, but he made it all the same. “My apologies for the interruption.”
“Who approaches?” barked the Duke’s aide.
“You know damn well who approaches, Conrad!” Wyden snapped. “Count Willem Wyden.”
“Your summons will begin soon, Count Wyden,” the man replied. “Please wait your turn.”
“Your mother said much the same,” Wyden growled. Wheeling his way past Leo, he reached the foot of the stairs and pulled a small, tightly folded page from his breast pocket. “I have evidence to present to His Excellency.”
Sighing, Conrad started to descend the stairs. He’d gone only a single step, however, when Wyden scowled and shoved the page back into his pocket.
“This is for His Excellency’s eyes only,” the count said.
The man started to protest, then stopped short when the Duke rapped his knuckles soundly on the arm of his throne. Slowly, the Duke shook his head.
“It’s fine, Conrad,” he said. For such a powerful man, Leo found the Duke’s voice to be surprisingly soft. “Willem can present it to me himself.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Wyden said, his tone courteous once more. He rose shakily from his chair, eyeing the stairs suspiciously.
Leo almost wanted to help him. The count had worn his artificial leg but seemed unwilling to rely on it. He limped slowly, taking his time. No sooner had he mounted the first step, however, than it gave out from under him. Leo hurried forward, then froze when Wyden waved him off with a curse.
“I’m fine, damn it!” he grumbled. “It’s just this fucking leg.”
Gingerly seating himself on the stairs, Wyden hiked the leg of his trousers and began to fiddle with the straps. At first, the sight of the aged count’s struggles prompted murmurs of sympathy from the crowd. Then, as the minutes dragged on without resolution, the first titters of laughter began to spread.
Leo whirled in their directions, his embarrassment on Wyden’s behalf burning in his gut. Soon, however, the crowd’s amusement spread until it was the rare noble who hadn’t buried their face in their sleeve to quiet their chuckles.
“Good-for-nothing piece of shit!” Wyden snarled. Yanking the straps aside, he pulled the artificial leg from his knee and tucked it under his arm.
Then, slowly, he began to crawl up the stairs.
Leo watched in disbelief as Wyden climbed his way toward the Duke. He’d never imagined the count capable of humiliating himself to such an extent. And for what? To place evidence into the hand of the Duke himself, rather than a lackey?
Fortunately, he didn’t have to watch for long. Wyden managed barely four stairs before he stopped to rest. He sat there, puffing, as the laughter of the crowd grew and grew. Then, with a sharp gesture, the Duke intervened.
Once again, Conrad produced his silver rod of office and banged it loudly against the throne. The laughter died immediately.
Then, with an air of dignity, the Duke made his way down the stairs to Wyden’s side. He extended his hand, no doubt expecting Wyden to hand over his scrap of evidence, but instead, the count merely grasped it and used the Duke to haul himself up.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Wyden said. “I apologize for the spectacle.”
“Think nothing of it,” the Duke replied graciously. “Though, you might want to wear a different leg next time.”
“A fine idea, Your Excellency,” Wyden said, shifting his grip on the artificial limb. He thrust a hand inside it and smiled. “I’ll do just that.”
And then, without warning, Count Wyden pulled forth a blade from within the hollowed limb and thrust it deep into the Duke of Ansiri’s chest.
***
Leo watched in disbelief as the Duke staggered. The man stared at the knife hilt protruding from his chest, then followed the hand that grasped it up to Wyden’s face. The count stared back at his liege, his face utterly emotionless, then turned in place. Without the support of Wyden’s shoulder, the Duke swayed slightly, then fell.
Leo flinched as the Duke’s body cascaded down the stairs, smearing blood along the steps as it passed. In the utter silence of the hall, the wet, crunching sounds of the corpse striking the floor almost echoed.
Wyden sat calmly, reattaching his artificial leg with a few deft motions. No sign of his earlier feebleness remained. Then, rising, he effortlessly climbed the last few stairs and seated himself on the late Duke’s throne.
“Really? No protests?” Wyden asked. He glanced at the motionless aide beside him. “Not even from you, Conrad?”
The balding man turned slowly, his body seemingly frozen in mute horror from the neck down.
“No?” Wyden said, sounding almost disappointed. “Well then, go fetch my crown, would you?”
“Murderer!” bellowed a sudden voice from the gallery.
Leo spun to see a short, bearded man climb furiously over the side of the gallery’s waist-high wall. The man stormed past Leo, all the way to the foot of the stairs. He did not glance at the Duke’s body at his feet but gestured violently at Wyden instead.
“I never took you for a killer, Wyden!” the man thundered. “But you’ll hang for this! The Duke—”
“The Duke is dead,” Wyden interrupted. His voice did not echo as his accuser’s had, but cut through the room like a knife, nonetheless. “And if you hope to survive the hour, Count Finch, you’ll bend the knee to his replacement.”
“You?” laughed Finch. “You’re a fucking assassin, Wyden—and a crippled one at that! I am First Count! There’s not a man alive who’d follow you!”
<
br /> “Really?” Wyden said. He leaned forward on his throne and grinned down at Finch. Then, without breaking eye contact, he gestured sharply to the men at the back of the hall. “Open the doors.”
Leo turned, unable to do otherwise, and saw most of the assembled nobles do likewise. To his astonishment, the men at the doors answered Wyden’s command without hesitation. Pulling the lock free, they pried open the doors.
And, standing just outside, was an army. The men marched into the room with the swiftness of trained professionals. Two dozen surrounded the nobles’ gallery, while another twelve hastened to Wyden’s side. Several mounted the stairs to defend the man himself, while others moved to flank Finch and Leo. Then, as their heavy footsteps ceased, the doors slammed shut once more and the room returned to its unnatural quiet.
“Well, Your Grace?” Wyden asked, folding his hands in his lap. “Are you prepared to swear loyalty?”
For just a moment, Leo almost thought the man would. Finch shifted slightly as he eyed the men on either side of him. Then, when neither reacted, he turned to study the motionless nobles in the gallery. Their frightened faces stared back at him, desperate for leadership.
“Never,” Finch growled. He spat loudly. “I already told you, there’s not a man alive who’d follow you. Not here, not in Ansiri, and nowhere in the whole damned Isles!”
“How unfortunate,” Wyden said. He nodded to one of the men at Finch’s side.
The man drew his sword swiftly. And, before the First Count had a chance to do more than turn, the soldier brought his blade down and removed his head.
This time, the gallery reacted at once. Screams filled the air as nobles scrambled to their feet. A few made a break for the doors, only to be intercepted at sword point and corralled back with the rest.
“Silence!” Wyden bellowed. And, to Leo’s surprise, the crowd obeyed. “Enough. Enough retched noise! I have not come here to butcher the lot of you! Please, sit.”
Slowly, shakily, the nobles did as Wyden commanded.
“The late First Count said that no man alive would follow me,” Wyden continued, rising. He descended the stairs, avoiding the bloodstains and punctuating each step with a word or two. Then, as he reached the floor, he maneuvered carefully between the bodies of Duke Avans and Count Finch until he reached Leo’s side. “What do you say, Baron VanOrden?”
Leo hesitated, resisting the urge to glance at the countless eyes that were doubtless staring into his back. He felt suddenly unprepared to answer, almost as unprepared as he’d been for everything Wyden had done so far. The man’s brutal ruthlessness was so unlike the image Leo had held, it felt almost like standing before a stranger.
And yet, it wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d experienced it. Wyden had invaded his home and slaughtered Leo’s servants just to provide a cover for his previous ambitions. Obviously, the man was capable of assassination; the real question was: What wasn’t Wyden capable of doing?
Leo bowed his head and sank smoothly onto one knee.
“I am at your service, Your Excellency,” he said.
A sound, rather like the rustling of feathers filled the air. Kneeling as he was, Leo needed only turn his head slightly to see the foremost row of nobles following suit. They knelt reluctantly in ones and twos until the whole company could barely be seen over the low wall of the gallery.
“Wonderful,” Wyden murmured. Touching Leo softly on the shoulder, he gestured for him to stand. Then, without a word, the newly titled Duke turned and ascended the stairs to his throne. This time, when he sat, there were no protests or outcries. Instead, the nobles simply rose from their knees and cautiously took their seats as well.
“Under the circumstances, I’ll be brief,” Wyden announced. “Baron VanOrden, in recognition for being the first of your noble peers to acknowledge your new Duke, I hereby pardon any crimes of which you stand accused.”
This proclamation inspired a few murmurs and whispers from the crowd, but Wyden did not even acknowledge them. Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved the same scrap of paper he’d used before and slowly unfolded it.
“Earlier,” he said. “I stated that this page was for the Duke’s eyes only. Now that I hold that title, I have decided that it belongs to all. I hold in my hand a declaration from the aldermen of Sutherpoint. In it, they declare that they no longer wish to be subjects of the Duke of Ansiri. As of two weeks ago, they have proclaimed themselves an independent nation, subject only to the former Count Lionel. Now, King Lionel has announced his intentions to cease all tithes and exports. And he warns that any attempts by Ansiri ships to—”
Wyden was unable to finish. An immense outcry from the nobles erupted, so loud and vehement that Leo found himself stepping out of the way. A dozen men lined the forward wall of the gallery box, shouting and gesturing in Wyden’s direction.
This time, however, Wyden did not attempt to suppress the outburst. He sat on the edge of his seat, smiling gravely and gesturing for quiet. Only after several minutes of sustained outrage did he finally get it.
“This letter was sent to me in my official capacity as former Second Count,” he explained. “Which means that both the late Duke and Count Finch would have received the same notice. I can only guess as to why they kept it secret, but I promise you. Your Graces, lords, and ladies… so long as I am Duke of Ansiri, your overseas holdings will remain protected. Your wealth will remain undisturbed. And the Isles will remain whole!”
Once again, the emotions of the crowd spilled over. Fear and anger remained pronounced, but this time, none of it was aimed at Wyden. More than a few members of the nobility even began to applaud.
Leo watched them coldly. The few colonial properties he’d inherited from the Hammonds were to the north of Ansiri, far from the reach of Sutherpoint rebels. But even if they had been endangered, he couldn’t imagine himself turning so quickly as the crowd before him. In the span of a few minutes, Wyden had converted a mob of outraged noblemen into dubiously loyal supporters, merely on the promise of preserving their wealth and status. Evidently, their noble pensions and incomes were of greater importance than the lives of their former rulers.
It almost made him wonder if Nicolo’s impassioned diatribes were correct.
“Now, given recent events,” Wyden said. “I believe the nobility of Ansiri is lacking a few counts. Obviously, the self-styled King Lionel cannot be both King and Fourth Count. He shall need to be replaced. As will the First and Second Counts, so… perhaps we can simply move along the ladder’s rungs, as it were. Where’s the Third Count? Count Terras?”
The crowd, which had already begun to quiet at Wyden’s voice, grew suddenly still.
“Goodness, is he still missing?” Wyden said with a chuckle. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky if anyone’s left. Ah… the Fifth Count? Count Grey? Are you present?”
“I am, Your Excellency,” called a voice from within the crowd. The man who’d spoken pushed his way delicately to the front. “And at your service.”
“Wonderful,” Wyden called. “You’ll be First Count then. And so on for the rest of Your Graces. Which means there are still four more that need replacing? Let’s see, um…”
The Duke spoke casually, but Leo got the impression that he’d rehearsed this very scene many times. The already hushed nobles grew motionless as statues while the most senior of Ansiri’s barons leaned forward in anticipation.
“Moor, Parrott, Quinn,” Wyden rattled off, after a moment. “You three come to the front where I can see you. And, hmm… Orczy, you too. It’s about time we had a proper countess again.”
Leo whirled almost violently. It wasn’t that he’d expected Wyden to name him count—though he’d secretly harbored a hope that the man would. But the mention of Orczy took him aback. He briefly thought, irrationally, that Cirilla’s father had somehow staged a miraculous recovery and decided to attend.
But no, the woman sliding her way to the front of the gallery was none other than Leo’s be
trothed. She eyed him guiltily, then turned her face to Wyden.
“Ordinarily,” Wyden said, “we would have a big ceremony to announce your ascensions. But, thanks to King Lionel and his band of rebels, we’ll have to postpone that. In the meantime, you’ll begin your duties as counts, and countess, tomorrow morning. Report here to the Ministry and I’ll assign your districts, responsibilities, and all the other assorted nonsense. Any questions?”
There were none. The three newly appointed counts bowed deeply, alongside Cirilla who curtseyed simply. Leo tried to meet her eye a second time, but once again she avoided his gaze.
“Good,” Wyden said. He rose, returning the bows with a far shallower one. “Well then, if that’s all, I suppose we—”
“Pardon, Your Excellency,” Cirilla called. Her voice was light and sweet, quite unlike the one Leo was used to hearing. He frowned, then frowned deeper when Cirilla’s eyes momentarily landed on him. “There is still the other matter. The one we discussed?”
“Oh!” Wyden exclaimed, grinning broadly. “Yes, of course! Do come forward.”
Leo watched warily as Cirilla climbed gracefully over the wall of the gallery and glided forward. Then, at the last minute, she veered suddenly and made her way to Leo’s side. Slipping her arm around his, she pulled him close and leaned in to whisper.
“I’m sorry, Leo,” she said. “I would have warned you, but…”
“Baron VanOrden,” Wyden said sternly, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “It gives me no pleasure to say this, but I’m afraid the Countess Orczy left me little choice.”
“Your Gr—Excellency,” Leo exclaimed quickly. His palms began to sweat and he started to pull away, but Cirilla’s arm held him fast. Then, before he had a chance to flee, one of Wyden’s men approached from behind and laid a heavy, immobilizing hand on his shoulder.
Wyden grinned suddenly, a broad, toothy thing full of wicked amusement.
“Baron, I think it’s high time you were married.”
Baron of Hearts (Master of Monsters Book 2) Page 23