All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3)

by Adam Dreece

  “But…” Sarah turned to her siblings as they pleaded to be let go. “They’re my brothers.”

  “It is just my recommendation, Your Majesty,” said Abeland. He remained quiet, allowing the new queen to think. He could see the wheels turning in her head, thinking through all the possibilities that lay before her.

  She smiled back at Abeland. “I appreciate your counsel, but I will have them imprisoned. What shall I call you?”

  Abeland showed no signs of having any issue with the decision of the queen. “Lord Pieman is my father. Some call me the Baron Pieman, but I’d prefer if you simply called me Abeland. If I may ask: can you read, Queen Sarah?”

  She stopped, realizing for the first time that she was truly the queen now. Sarah took in the broken remains of her father’s legacy. The entourage that she’d been a part of, standing at first so confidently around the King and then cowering behind the throne, had mostly deserted in recent minutes.

  With her head held high, she replied, “No. My father didn’t feel it was important to educate women. As his daughter, I was to be married off for the purposes of an alliance.” She paused. “I’ve heard rumors that you’re of a different view.”

  “I am indeed, Your Highness. I have a niece, Richelle, who I taught to read long ago.” Abeland turned to one of his men. “Can you send word we will need Anciano Cervantes? We can’t have a leader who cannot read.”

  Abeland descended to one knee and bowed his head, a move quickly mirrored by his entourage. “Your Majesty, we will help fix this oversight. You and all women of your nation will need to read if they are to help shape its new laws and ways.”

  The queen smiled, for the first time feeling respected for who she was, rather than what she was. Slowly, she turned to face her brothers. She thought of Abeland’s earlier words. “Execute them,” she commanded, “by order of the queen.”

  With his eyes focused on the ground, Abeland smiled. Sometimes, the patriarchs made it all too easy.

  Things had turned for Abeland several months later, near the end of July. Karupto was taking longer to get its act together in terms of reforms and transferring power to a parliament, but that wasn’t the sole concern. There had been signs throughout the southern kingdoms, from Augusto to Caixa, from Zouak to Ganounia, that something was going on. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  In another week, he was going to need to leave the beautiful southern coast of Jannia and head back to his home just outside Belnia’s capital of Relna. He was running low on his breathing medicine, and he looked forward to surprising his love by coming home early from his travels.

  Until then, he’d focus on business and appreciating the last of Jannia’s great weather and views. Abeland handed over the reins of his horse to a servant before closing the elegant wooden gate to the inner courtyard of his home behind him. He tugged the sleeves of his black, gentleman’s long coat as he walked through the garden until something caught his attention.

  He noticed that the courtyard garden was unusually silent, empty of birds and servants. The longer he listened, the more it bothered him that he couldn’t hear anything.

  Abeland pulled his repeating flintlock pistol out of his thigh holster and clicked a gear on the monocle, making everything appear extremely sharp.

  “Maria? Eduardo?” Abeland called out to his head servants. He slowly turned around until he saw the main gate being closed, and five of his top men from the Order of the Pieman’s Trust coming up the path.

  Abeland studied the men carefully. Their hands were resting on their weapons. Francisco’s dual-pistols were sitting in their holsters on the front of his belt. Roberto had his six knives and a pistol showing on his belt, with his hands on his hips, holding his coat back. Guillermo had his rifle in hand, leaning against his shoulder. Enrico and Baltano had their hands behind their backs, ever the wildcards of the bunch.

  Nodding to himself as he took in the situation, Abeland asked, “Francisco, you do realize what you’re doing—right, amigo? We’ve been through a lot together.”

  Francisco rubbed his long, leathery face. He smiled at his boys, and nodded as he returned his gaze to Abeland. “We do.”

  Abeland twiddled his fingers as his mind ran quickly through the dozens of scenarios he saw before him. “Roberto, are all of you in agreement?”

  Roberto looked a little uneasy. “It seems, Anciano Pieman, that your time in the sun is done.”

  “Okay,” said Abeland, nodding and thinking. He’d personally found and trained each one of these men. Francisco had been with him the longest—nearly ten years—while Baltano was coming on two years.

  Abeland slowly raised his arms. “Before you do whatever you need to do, I just want to understand why.”

  Francisco scoffed. “We agreed to stay true to the code of the Pieman’s Trust—a code you created, amigo. But I am afraid it has been proven that you betrayed it. This, we cannot let stand.” Francisco scratched his stubbly chin. “Respectfully, I must ask that you stay quiet. We all know that your words can bend steel and mind. We’ve all seen it, heard it. Please don’t make this more difficult.”

  “Please,” urged Enrico. It surprised Abeland to see the same conviction in his eyes as in the others.

  Abeland lowered his gaze. He raised his arms up another couple of inches.

  Roberto and Enrico approached carefully, pistols drawn.

  “Huh, those are new repeating pistols. Very new,” said Abeland, peeking up at the weapons.

  “Please, Anciano Pieman, no talking,” said Enrico respectfully. “We are only to take you to prison to await trial.”

  “Don’t worry, this won’t be difficult,” said Abeland, thrusting his arms down quickly. With a click beneath his coat, Abeland punched Roberto, hitting him in the chest with a springing steel baton from under his sleeve, winding him. He then rolled into Enrico and used him as a shield as the other three shot at him. He dropped Enrico to the ground, dead.

  The gate opened, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “They should have waited,” said a familiar voice.

  Abeland stared in confusion. “Simon?”

  Simon St. Malo smiled and strode in confidently. “Gentlemen, you may leave.”

  Grudgingly, they picked up Roberto and left Enrico.

  Abeland wasn’t sure how to read the situation. “Are you really going to take me on by yourself?”

  Simon nodded. “It’s been a while, Abeland. How far we’ve come, from kids playing together to now. Even since Lennart’s death, you just never found the opportunity for some one-on-one time, so here we are.” He was savoring the moment.

  Abeland’s face wrinkled. “You’ve never been the talkative type.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been the thinking type, and the learning-things-about-people type.” Simon smiled at the open gate as a small amount of white fluff started blowing in. He gestured to it, very pleased with himself. “I love learning all kinds of things about certain people.”

  “Your weapon of choice is puffballs? You’re even dumber than I thought,” said Abeland, knowing that anger and ego were Simon’s two greatest weaknesses.

  Simon smiled sinisterly. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d never have seen it coming. You would’ve been getting off your horse and then BOOM, nothing but bits of mess. No, I was given a challenge and I decided to see just how subtly I could do it.”

  “Subtle isn’t usually your style,” Abeland started coughing profusely.

  “Ah,” said Simon, pointing at Abeland with an eyebrow cocked. “See, by my calculations, right now your lungs have lost more than half of their capacity. In another minute or two, it’ll be nearly nothing.”

  Abeland felt his legs turn to jelly as his chest hardened. He knew the feeling all too well. It had been his single greatest secret over the past couple of years.

  Simon grinned as Abeland fell on all fours. “Pollen. Not guns, not spears, not even machines of serious imagination. It’s poetic, really. They are
the seeds of your destruction.

  “I had to have one of the servants steal a couple vials of your homemade medicine in order to figure out just how much pollen, and what types I needed to completely overwhelm you. It seems I owe him a bonus.”

  Abeland blacked out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Pointy Stick Inn

  Nikolas yawned as the carriage door opened. It was nearly midnight. One of Marcus’ soldiers stood with a lantern, holding the door. The light cut a path in the night between the carriage and the inn. Nikolas was hungry and looking forward to a warm meal and a decent bed. It had been a whirlwind day.

  Marcus stepped out the door of the double-length carriage’s front section. He’d been working for the past several hours. They’d stopped twice in seemingly strange places. Nikolas had made a point of not paying attention. He knew what was going on, but the less he was seen witnessing, the better for him, he figured.

  Despite the late hour, and the remote location, the Pointy Stick Inn was bustling with well-armed men and women inside and out. Nikolas didn’t recognize their colors.

  A few of Marcus’ soldiers remained to guard the carriage and horses, while the rest huddled around Marcus.

  As he gave them instructions, Nikolas wandered off, taking in the sweet spring air. It was different here; more humid and warmer than back in Minette. It reminded him of home.

  “Where are you going?” asked a gruff voice.

  Nikolas slowly turned, his hands clasped together behind his back. “I am appreciating the night and the opportunity to stretch my legs. It is good to move about. It allows the mind to move in concert with the body once again, yes?”

  The soldier was one of Marcus’ scouts and clearly didn’t like what he’d heard. He was wearing gray leather armor, and had a crossbow on his back. His belt held a dagger and a shiny pistol.

  Nikolas hunched over, exaggerating his old man status. The moonlight bounced off his bald head. “Why do you have that?” he asked, pointing to the interesting firearm.

  The soldier tried to grab Nikolas by the arm, but Nikolas nimbly sidestepped him, nearly making the younger man tumble to the ground.

  Nikolas leaned in to examine the pistol. “That’s not a flintlock. That’s new… very new. Why would you have one like that?” he wondered aloud, reaching for it.

  The soldier cursed and went to grab Nikolas more forcefully. Nikolas turned, leaving his foot strategically placed, and watched as the soldier fell on his face.

  Some of the patrons started laughing and clapping. “Nice one, old man!” yelled someone.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Marcus in a sharp and stern voice, walking up to them.

  Nikolas showed Marcus the pistol he’d taken from the soldier as he’d fallen. “Why does he have such a pistol? Its newness is… unexpected, yes?”

  Marcus squinted at the pistol in the moon-and-torch light. He glared at the soldier as he scrambled to his feet, face red with anger and embarrassment.

  “Tell me where you got this,” demanded Marcus.

  The soldier shifted his angry gaze between Marcus and Nikolas. He’d only been working for Marcus for a couple of weeks, and had been pretty much invisible to Marcus up until then. “It’s mine. I bought it. What’s it to you?” said the soldier. He started to reach for it, but the glare in Marcus’ eyes stopped him.

  Nikolas shook his head, holding the pistol up to the light. “No, you couldn’t have bought this. Unless you’re rich and you’re doing this job for… for no reason I can imagine.”

  “Indeed,” said Marcus, narrowing his eyes as he studied the soldier trying to inch away from him. “I asked you a question. Where did you get this?”

  The soldier started to sweat, his eyes dancing around at the numerous people now paying attention.

  Marcus took the pistol from Nikolas and held it up to the moonlight, studying it some more. He muttered to himself as he noted key things about its design. He brought it down and held it in his hand. “The weight is very good, the grip quite nice. You have a good piece here,” Marcus said to the soldier in a friendly tone. He then extended his arm and pointed the pistol, point blank, at the soldier’s face. “It hides the repeat loader well, but given the size of the pistol and the siding that accompanies the barrel, I surmise that it contains three shots. Now answer my question.”

  “Lord Pieman, your table is ready,” said Marcus’ captain from behind.

  “Do you recognize this?” Marcus asked his captain, raising the pistol over his shoulder, but keeping his eyes locked on the soldier.

  The captain hesitated for a moment. “St. Malo gave them to some of us. He wanted to make sure that we had a superior weapon with which to protect you. He didn’t want us telling anyone.”

  Marcus dropped the pistol to his side. “Even me?” he said in disbelief, staring his captain squarely in the eyes.

  The captain glanced at the problem soldier before answering. “I guess St. Malo may have been too emphatic in his instructions of telling no one.”

  Nikolas furrowed his brow. He didn’t like the answer.

  Marcus gently tossed the pistol in the air and grabbed it by the barrel. He then held it out for the soldier to take.

  The soldier looked at it, then at the captain, and then at Marcus. He stretched out his hand to take it. When he gripped it, Marcus held on to it firmly.

  “Never forget who you work for,” said Marcus, his tone and eyes burning into the man. The soldier nodded nervously in reply.

  Marcus turned to Nikolas. “Let’s not keep our table waiting. It’s been a long day.”

  Just as they were about to walk into the inn, Marcus noticed a man loading a cart with barrels, and stopped. Marcus bowed his head, tired. “Nikolas, forgive me. There’s apparently something I need to attend to.”

  Nikolas noticed the man was loading the barrels at an unusually even pace, indicating to him both that they were empty and that he had no sense of urgency about getting home.

  “Captain, if you’d please see Nikolas to our table,” Marcus said as the captain caught up to them, the scout in tow.

  “Of course, Lord Pieman,” said the captain with a definitive nod.

  Nikolas eyed the captain and the scout. The light from the inside of the inn defined them better. As he stood there, holding the door open, he could see they were very rough, tired-looking characters. They hadn’t shaved in days, and had scars on their hands, faces, and necks.

  “Get in there, tubby,” said the captain, stopping himself before laying a hand on Nikolas, afraid of what the old man might do.

  Nikolas cocked his head to the side and studied the captain’s expression. “You think this joke is funny, yes? You’ve heard of the Tub and think yes, it is clever, but no. I am not fat and I am not very involved in the Tub, so therefore your joke is either extremely ignorant or you are attempting to conceal something which you are afraid I will notice.”

  The captain scowled at Nikolas and shoved him forward. “Get in there before we smack that grin off your face.”

  Nikolas steadied himself and stepped through the doorway. “What grin? Am I grinning?” he said to another one of Marcus’ entourage who was motioning for him to come to a particular table. He couldn’t help but smile. These men were professionals, but they were sloppy, tired, and might just give him the opportunity he needed.

  The inn seemed bigger on the inside. Nikolas loved that sense of disparity between how something appeared on the surface, and how it truly was. The inn was essentially a two-story rectangle, with chairs and tables swarmed by patrons. There was some smashed furniture piled up in a far, dark corner. Despite oil lamps hanging every six or so feet, the inn seemed intimate; it was just dark enough to feel you had some privacy while being light enough to give you confidence that the food you received was likely what you’d ordered.

  Laughter regularly erupted from various parts of the inn. Servers swam through the sea of people, trying to keep up with the impossible demand, and flip
ping from exhaustion to elation as drunk patrons showered them with coins, paying many times over what was owed.

  Nikolas felt a shove from behind and started making his way towards the table. As he walked, he noticed the stone wall and hearth at the opposite end. Decorating the giant fireplace were many small shields, each about the size of a hand. They were all perfectly lined up, except for one near the bottom that caught Nikolas’ eye. Its paint was faded, but he could still make out two lines with a spring around it. He knew the symbol well.

  Just as Nikolas arrived at the table, he pretended to trip, knocking over a woman who’d been balancing flagons on her head to the delight of her comrades. The flagons came crashing down.

  “You made me lose a week’s wages!” yelled a large, shaggy man, drawing a dagger from his belt.

  Nikolas gave them an innocent look, and then pointed at the captain.

  “Oh, he did it?” said the flagon-woman angrily, grabbing the captain.

  As a tussle started, Nikolas carefully made his way to the fireplace. He double-checked that there was only one shield out of alignment, and then overcorrected it, taking it from leaning too much to the left to leaning too much to the right.

  He turned around, scanning everyone. To his surprise, it was a young barmaid who locked eyes with him.

  “Ever the perfectionist, but clearly missing your specs,” said Marcus, correcting the shield to be perfectly straight. He handed Nikolas his spectacles, which had been left in the carriage. “That would have driven you mad all meal, wouldn’t it?”

  Nikolas nodded. He quickly thought out how to reinforce the idea. “It’s only gotten worse with age,” he said.

  “Now, let’s sit and eat,” said Marcus, putting his arm around Nikolas.

  He glanced up at Marcus, who was a couple of inches taller than him. Marcus had always made him feel like the welcome little brother, even though there were fifteen years between them.