The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series)

by Karen Miller

  “Explain yourself,” she said coldly. “Or things will go ill for you.”

  If Izusa was frightened, she didn’t show it. “You are angry.”

  “Indeed! How amazing. You must be a witch.”

  “Madam…” Another chiding sigh. “The regents have taken your daughter so they might keep you constrained.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that!”

  “Then what can I tell you?”

  If she asked the witch a question, she’d be admitting she trusted the answer. But who else could she confide in? With Baldwin dead, Catrain stolen, she had nowhere else to turn.

  “Is this Roric’s doing, Izusa? Did he betray me to the regents?”

  “No, Madam. It was Aistan. One of Roric’s closest lords.”

  “Then Roric—”

  “No, Madam. Aistan acted alone. In this, Roric’s hands are clean.”

  So. Catrain was proven right. A small comfort. “Hear me, Izusa. I won’t leave my daughter to the regents’ tender care. Nor will Cassinia’s dukes tolerate their conduct. When they learn—”

  “Cassinia’s dukes find your rule unnatural, Madam. They will do nothing to help you so long as Catrain remains unharmed. And even then…” Izusa shrugged one shoulder. “But never fear. Your daughter will remain unharmed, provided you do nothing rash.”

  The words struck her like lead and sank to the bottom of her soul. “What are you saying? That I must accept this–this theft? Abandon my child to the craven cowards who stole her?”

  Izusa nodded. “For now.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You must!”

  Shocked, Berardine waited for the wildly leaping candle-light to calm. Then she looked again at the woman she’d trusted for Baldwin’s sake. The witch who promised miracles. Who knew things no one could know.

  “I’m frightened, Izusa,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Izusa’s smile was kind, and confiding. “I know, Beradine. But if you trust me, all will be well.”

  She kept the severed baby’s head in a box carved out of ash.

  “Izusa,” it said, its grey lips fondling her name.

  The thrill of him sizzled through her, as though his fingers had touched her nape. “Salimbene.”

  “Have you seen the duchess?”

  Izusa nodded, eager. “Yes. I’ve just come from the palace.”

  “Were you noticed?”

  The thought of his anger sickened her. “No. I swear it.”

  Silence. The head’s lips drooped, like an old man’s, showing a hint of rotting gum. Wood smoked and crackled in the crumbling fireplace, throwing shadows against the sagging, cracked wattle-and-daub wall. She lived poor here, in this slummish Carillon cottage. Just as he wanted. Everything, as he wanted.

  “Izusa.” The head’s closed, sunken eyelids twitched. “How much did you tell her?”

  “Only that Catrain is safe. Nothing more.”

  The lips smiled. “Good. And now you’re done with Berardine. Make your way to the Marches between Clemen and Harcia. Kill the herb-woman Phemie, and take her place as a travelling leech.”

  He wasn’t calling her home? She wanted to weep, but that would displease him. “Yes, Salimbene.”

  “Make haste, Izusa. I will find you there.”

  The drooping infant lips stilled. He was gone. Soon after, the severed head collapsed into dust. Letting her tears fall, she unbound what remained of the binding rite and burned the box. Then she set fire to the hovel… and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Eagle-eyed Joben was first to see the trader and his two burdened mules, plodding along the dusty road leading to Pikebank township, where twice a year the Great Southern Horse Fair was held.

  “Ho, Balfre! What’s this?” he said, pointing ahead.

  Balfre grinned at his cousin. “Sport.”

  There was nobody else on the narrow, rutted road. The fair had opened two days earlier, and every village for leagues around had emptied itself into the town, to rowdy and trade and bawd with the horses as an excuse. Easing his destrier from canter to trot, Balfre raised a clenched fist. It was the only command he needed to give. Joben, riding on his left flank, Paithan on his right, with Lowis and Waymon behind them, eased their horses too. Once they were all prancing, he encouraged his stallion forward until he was clearly in the lead.

  “Now,” he said, still grinning, “let’s see what this tardy merchant as to say for himself.”

  The trader rode a spavin-shanked, goose-rumped, flea-bitten nag, and the mules were no better. Their sway backs sagged beneath the weight of the laden panniers they carried. The man’s lowered face was shaded from the sun by a wide-brimmed leather hat, his linen shirt-sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy, muscular forearms burned a deep summer brown, where they weren’t scarred. His leather leggings were scratched and he wore a long dagger belted at his side.

  “You there!” Balfre shouted, approaching. “Stand and account for yourself, in the name of Duke Aimery!”

  The trader looked up slowly, as though roused out of sleep. Pushing his hat back, revealing the acorn-brown skin and wide, flat cheekbones of one Maletti-born, he gaped as though he’d never seen well-bred horses before.

  “M’lord?” he called, not halting his nag and mules. “What be the trouble? Mizn’t I a proper man, minding his own tidy doings? What be the cause to stop me in my tracks?”

  “Hark to him,” said Paithan loudly, spitting contempt. “Fucking Maletti churl. Someone should raze their precious city state to the ground. Everyone knows they shit the plague in that place. Maybe we should strip him naked and burn his clothes, for fear he carries it.”

  “What?” the trader yelped. “Strip me? When I b’aint offering no soul a wigget of harm?”

  As his companions laughed, Balfre laid a hand on his sword-hilt. “I’ll decide if you’re harmful or not, man. Stand, I say, or I’ll cut the legs off you so you can sit on your arse for the rest of your short life.”

  The trader wrangled his horse and mules to a standstill. “Iss, iss, m’lord. I be stopped, see? No cause for ye to go waving a sword at innocent I, who never had a single plague boil a day in his life.”

  Balfre halted his own horse in front of the man, then waited until his companions had formed a menacing half-circle at his back. “What’s your name?”

  “Denno Culpyn, m’lord,” said the trader, sweeping his hat from his head, revealing close-cropped and grey-threaded dark hair. “Bonded merchant trader, as I am, and riding peaceful to Pikebank fair with fine, fancy wares for the lords and ladies of Harcia.”

  Waymon laughed, sneering. “Cheap and nasty trinkets, more like.”

  “No, m’lord, no trumpery, or call me a feggit!” Culpyn protested. “Mizn’t I be an honest man?”

  “How should I tell?” said Balfre. “I’ve never laid eyes on you before.” He took his time raking a cold stare over the trader, his nag and his burdened mules. “The fair began day before yesterday. You can’t be much of a trader if you don’t know that, and come so late to Pikebank.”

  “I do know it, m’lord,” said the trader, grimacing. “But I got m’self felled in the Marches, y’see. Lost four days shitting and heaving till the sickness passed. But t’weren’t plague!” he added hastily. “’Twas belly gripe. A nasty thing, but no more fearsome, m’lord. I swear.”

  A plausible excuse. But even so… “You claim you’re bonded to travel and trade in Harcia? Prove it.”

  “Trading passes in my saddle bag, m’lord,” said the trader, self-righteous. “All proper signed and sealed, they be. And the leech’s nod, m’lord, showing I b’aint diddled with plague. Denno Culpyn knows better than to cross out of the Marches without his papers, he does.”

  He held out his hand, eyebrows raised. Hid amusement as his companions added the weight of their gazes to his.

  Fumbling, the indignant insolence leaking out of him like water through a dented sieve, the trad
er dismounted, perched his hat on his saddle, unbuckled a saddle bag and pulled out a folded, much travel-stained sheet of parchment and a sheet of rush-paper.

  “See, m’lord?” he said, brandishing it. “Denno Culpyn mizn’t no truth-twister.”

  With a wave of his hand Balfre summoned the man closer. Took the parchment and unfolded it. The inked permissions were faded, the attached seals of Harcia and Clemen old and cracked, but the bond was in order. So was the leechery clearance, signed the day before.

  “You were trading in Clemen before crossing into Harcia?”

  “Iss, my lord, that be so. I traded in Clemen, and in the Marches.”

  “And where else in Harcia do you think to peddle your goods?”

  “That be hard to say, m’lord.” The trader plucked at his whiskery chin. “Depends on how swift I sell in Pikebank. Could be I won’t get a stride further. A great many of yer lords and ladies come to Pikebank for the horses, m’lord, and in my experience they’ve a powerful liking for fine wares.”

  “Fine wares, yes,” he said, and was pleased to see blood rise beneath the trader’s skin.

  Uneasy, Culpyn shuffled his feet. “Forgive me if I be a feggit slow worm, m’lord, but be there trouble in Harcia, that ye’d ribble me for no reason? Yer good duke’s not fallen amiss again, has he?”

  “Mind your tongue. My father is none of your concern.”

  That had the churl’s jaw dropping. “Yer father, my lord? Then ye be—”

  “Count Balfre,” he said, not bothering any more to hide his amusement. “Aimery’s heir, and the next duke of Harcia.”

  Culpyn looked near to shitting himself. “C- Count Balfre.” He managed an awkwardly dashing bow. “M’lord. Heard of ye, of course. Famed through all the Marches, ye be. And a feggit for it if ye b’aint.”

  Scowling, Balfre threw the battered travelling bonds at Culpyn’s feet. The paltry Marches? Before he was done he’d be famed far wider than that. “Empty your saddle bags and panniers.”

  The trader’s deep-set eyes widened. “M’lord?”

  “You heard Count Balfre, churl!” Waymon said roughly. “We’ll see your wares on the ground, or your blood. Choose which!”

  It was odd, really, how the big, blustery men always shrank when they were put to it. Indeed, the trader’s fingers never once touched his dagger. Instead, pinch-lipped and pale beneath his Maletti skin, Culpyn reluctantly obeyed. As short bolts of figured silk and muslin bags of jingling jewellery, bundles of embroidered doeskin gloves, stitched oilskin packets of rare herbs and spices and various other foreign treasures fell one by one to the dusty ground, Balfre idly considered his four companions.

  Three useful nobles and a cousin. All in all, he’d chosen his closest confidants well. Cousin Joben first, of course. Family was important. Then Lowis of Parsle Fountain, and Ferran’s wayward, reckless son Waymon. Paithan had joined him last, after much careful wooing. A particular triumph, weaning Black Hughe’s brother from that troublesome old rump Herewart. Their father’s heirs, every one. He was pleased to see, watching them watch the trader, there wasn’t a squeamish glance between them, not a soft heart to be found. He had no use for soft hearts. What he needed was ambition, hungry for being unfed. And in these men he had it. His companions were eager to inherit, as he was. Stifled by their sires, as he was. Ripe to pluck the fruit they wanted, heedless of tradition… as he was.

  Six years now, I’ve bided my time. Danced to Aimery’s never-silent pipe. Played my part as the contrite and dutiful son. Smiled and smiled and smiled at the great Steward Grefin, every time he sets foot off the Green Isle.

  Only thinking of his brother made his teeth ache, like biting ice. He’d have to practice his smiling on the ride back to Cater’s Tamwell. Doubtless Grefin had reached the castle by now, with Mazelina and their happy brood. Two more brats Grefin had sired since leaving the mainland for his little island fiefdom. But only one was another son. That was some consolation. And now they were all returning to Harcia’s capital to celebrate Aimery’s sixtieth birthday.

  The old man should have another palsy and be done with life. He’s past his prime. Worn out. And Harcia’s weeping to be reborn.

  “Balfre,” said Paithan, beside him. “Culpyn’s done.”

  On a sharp breath, Balfre frowned at the haphazard piles of tumbled goods on the road. Then he stared at the trader, whose hand rested on one supposedly-empty saddle bag. There was something possessive, even furtive, in the gesture. Suspicion prickled.

  “Done? I don’t think so.” He raised his voice, giving it a sharper edge. “Culpyn. What is it you don’t want me to see?”

  A small flicker of resentful defiance lit the trader’s eyes. “M’lord? Here be all my trinkets and wares, ruined for yer pleasure. B’aint another mossle to show ye, my word on it.”

  “Your word?” He leaned forward. “Man, I’d take poison before I’d take your word. What’s in the saddle bag?”

  “Nothing, m’lord! Nothing!” But Culpyn’s snatched hand told a different story. Caught in a lie, his face reddened with frightened guilt. “M’lord, they be letters, is all. Little letters, a few chicken scratches. No harm in ’em. I mizn’t a man as would hurt yer fine duchy.”

  “Letters for whom? Written by whom?”

  “Writ by all manner of Marcher folk, m’lord, as need me to ride with ’em into Harcia. When they can’t, y’see, on account of not being travel bonded.”

  Balfre laughed. “Fuck, Culpyn, do you expect me to believe you scamper about the Marches on that nag, with those sorry mules, collecting letters like a royal messenger?”

  “No, m’lord,” the trader whispered.

  “Well, then?”

  “M’lord—”

  “Answer me!”

  “M’lord…” The trader stared at his battered boots. “It be true I mizn’t no fancy, scampering messenger. A fine woman I know, trusted by all the Marcher lords, she is, she holds the letters from folk then passes ’em to me, and I pass ’em on after.”

  “And does this paragon have a name?”

  Culpyn didn’t want to tell him that, either. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his jaw tightened, his throat convulsed as he swallowed. Then his gaze lifted to the Harcian knights ranged before him.

  “Molly,” he muttered.

  “And who is she? This Molly?”

  “I told ye, m’lord. She be a fine woman. Taps a sweet keg and bakes a greely mutton pie in the Pig Whistle Inn, at the big Marches crossroads. Her place, it be. Run tight as a drum.”

  The Pig Whistle? He’d heard of it. “And does she write letters too? This fine, trustworthy innkeeper?”

  The trader shrugged, helpless. “Iss, m’lord. Sometimes. No harm there either. No harm in any of ’em. Just little bits of gossip, they be. Just as I told ye, m’lord, no danger to Harcia.”

  “How would you know? Do you read them? These letters?”

  Culpyn stepped back, shocked. “Read ’em? No! I mizn’t no stickybeaker. I told ye, m’lord. I be an honest trader doing a kindness for a friend.”

  Nothing so innocent would break a man into a rolling sweat… and the trader was sweating. And that meant a lie. Denno Culpyn might well be a man who sold goods for coin but it was clear as the sun overhead he was something else too. A messenger for spies, or perhaps a spy himself. Traders were widely travelled–and they weren’t all as they seemed.

  “The letters, Culpyn. I’ll have them.”

  Culpyn blinked. “M’lord?”

  “I’ll have them.”

  “But–m’lord–Count Balfre—” The trader raised an imploring hand. “Molly, she do trust me to see ’em safe delivered. She promised others, trusting me.”

  “And if you speak another word, Culpyn, you can trust I’ll see you safe delivered to a fucking dungeon. The letters.”

  On the brink of tears, Culpyn took a bulky, twine-bound packet from the saddle bag and surrendered it. Not bothering to even undo the twine, Balfre slid the letters into hi
s doublet.

  “Waymon. Lowis.”

  Like well-trained boarhounds, they knew what he wanted. Unmoved, he watched as they beat the trader into a bruised and bloodied heap. The nag and the mules shuffled uneasily, heads tossing, but the beasts were too weary to bolt. Culpyn grunted and moaned and tried to protect his face and balls, but Waymon and Lowis were jousters, men who wore steel armour like silk. Brash Denno Culpyn was no match for them.

  When he was sure the lesson had been learned, he snapped his fingers. Waymon and Lowis stepped back.

  “Give me the travelling bond.”

  Lowis retrieved the torn parchment from under the flea-bitten nag’s cracked, poorly shod hoof and handed it over, then he and Waymon remounted their horses.

  “Culpyn,” Balfre said, nudging his stallion closer to the shuddering man curled on the ground amidst his trampled wares. “Look at me.”

  Culpyn forced open his swiftly swelling eyes. “Iss, m’lord?”

  “What you do in Clemen is your business–and that cursed bastard Roric’s. But my business is Harcia. You’re no longer welcome here.” He pulled Aimery’s seal off the parchment and snapped the worn, faded wax disc in half. Tossed the pieces away. Tossed the parchment and leech pass after them. “If you’re found in my duchy again you’ll swing from a gibbet. Understood?”

  Culpyn nodded, wincing. “Iss, m’lord.”

  “And don’t linger in the Marches, either. Harcia’s Marcher lords will be told of you, Trader Culpyn. Best you limp back to Clemen with your tail between your legs and find yourself a bed in one of Eaglerock’s middens. Better yet, swim back to Maletti. For there’ll come a time soon when the likes of you won’t be safe anywhere within my reach.”

  Breathing harshly, dribbling scarlet from his broken nose and the splits in his eyebrow and cheek, Culpyn staggered to his feet.

  “This b’aint right,” he said thickly. “I be an honest man. I mizn’t done a thing wrong to ye.”

  Balfre looked down at the trader’s ruined wares. “Your taste in trinkets offends me. And that’s offence enough.”

  “M’lord,” said the trader, and bent to start retrieving his goods.