Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  He might be a supposed guest of the Queen, but he had learned it was Lord Shamet who arranged for his comfort. Edouard knew little of Shamet. He understood the place the chancellor occupied in Micia's court. Beyond that his knowledge of the man who controlled his life and future was sadly limited. He had not been interested in such things, and now he had cause to regret it. He was sure his brother Charles would know every detail of the man's life, interests and ambitions. If Charles were to find himself in this mess, which was beyond unlikely, he would have the skill to engage and charm Shamet.

  It was clear to Edouard that he had no such hope. Lord Shamet had not visited him. It seemed he had been judged and found wanting. Given the state in which he had arrived at Micia's palace that was not surprising. He dreaded questions about the wound he had received from the shadow creature. The magister treating him had said he was lucky to survive. From the way the man had eyed him, Edouard guessed he knew more than he said. Shamet would have the same information. So, even though he had yet to meet Lord Shamet, he could appreciate how the man might have decided he was not a welcome guest.

  It was a problem, given that Shamet now controlled his life and decided what he was allowed and not allowed to do. There were many things he had not been allowed. Chief among these was an audience with Queen Micia, or any understanding of what his position or future among her court might be. It was weeks since he had recovered from the fever. During that time, he had been treated well, in many ways just as a noble guest might expect to be. But he had been kept apart from the court and isolated from the world beyond the palace. Even within the palace, he was allowed contact with very few people. Edouard realized that, as often as he had mocked his brother, diplomacy had its uses, in this position Charles would know what to do and how to do it.

  Edouard ran. He ran to build his strength, and because it was an acceptable way to soothe his nerves. Even without a sword, he worked at practice drills. The familiar routines raised ghosts of his home and past. Training routines were a reminder of Chamfort. And of Michel. Guilt over Michel's death dogged him constantly, and he had too much time for thought. He had nightmares about leaving Michel. Awake he could not escape the ache of regret. Michel had been so badly served, after all his care and loyalty to Chamfort. It was something he could never change, or make right.

  Completing his run, he began to work through the drills and exercises of sword practice. At first, he had used a fallen branch to replace his sword, but it was awkward and ill balanced. Instead, he braced against an invisible weight and performed each exercise with agonizing slowness. He made every line perfect, working through the positions until his muscles screamed in agony. A moment's rest and he began again.

  When his strength and fitness returned, so would his options. If Shamet would not come to him, then he must find a way to go to Shamet.

  ####

  Lord Shamet stood in the shade of a palace balcony. Clerks carrying armfuls of scrolls and papers waited nearby. He frowned and sent them away to complete their various tasks. He turned back to watch Edouard de Chamfort at practice. His frown deepened. At first, Shamet had been amused by the young man's disciplined activity. He had thought it pointless, a display of anxiety. Now he began to see results and was not so sure.

  He noticed some of the slaves watching de Chamfort train. The denizens of Allesarion loved the coliseum. The gladiators won followers through skill, strength and bravery. Crowds gathered at the coliseum each day just to watch the gladiators train. The people of Allesarion knew how to recognize skill. Day by day, de Chamfort's training attracted a growing interest, similar to that shown to the gladiators. At first, Shamet had thought it was the novelty factor. Then, reluctantly, he admitted it was due to the young man's skill.

  Shamet, along with most of the citizens of Allesarion, loved the gladiators and the coliseum. He felt a measure of contempt for the knights of Valderon, with their posturing pledges of honor and bloodless tournaments. In Allesarion there was no knightly code, no rules or artifice. Centuries ago, Allesarion's armies had been drawn from her male and female citizens. Now a large professional army was needed to guard the mines and territories. The soldiers were trained to fight as a unit; the search for individual brilliance was considered a disruptive influence.

  It was in the arena that gladiators fought, sometimes to the death, to win gold and personal glory. In the arena convicted criminals died like animals, or fought each other to the death for the crowd's entertainment. It was said that if you raised a sword in Allesarion blood would be spilled. It was a true maxim.

  Shamet had made certain assumptions about Edouard de Chamfort. Now he began to wonder about their guest. In the weeks following his illness, the young man had developed his fitness through a rigorous training routine worthy of any gladiator. In this he was disciplined and single-minded. The results were impressive.

  Some of Micia's Athari had started watching him. Today Shamet saw one of her captains standing in the shadows. This truly gave him pause. Micia's Athari scorned even the best gladiators' skills. They did little to hide their contempt, and there was an ongoing and sometimes deadly feud between the Athari and the gladiators. Once a year chosen members of Micia's Athari fought in bouts against the top ranked gladiators. The arena was packed to bursting for these contests, and huge sums were lost and won in wagers. It was a match every citizen wanted to witness. Micia's Athari would not take note of a foreigner without a sword unless there was good reason.

  The interest de Chamfort was attracting left Shamet with a problem. It had been his plan to keep their guest hidden away, unnoticed until Micia lost interest in him and agreed to hand him back to King Ferdinand to face whatever fate awaited him.

  The first steps were underway. A letter had been received from King Ferdinand. The King requested that de Chamfort be returned to face charges of high treason and murder. On Micia's orders, Shamet had sent a reply expressing sorrow that he must deny the King his request. He had asked for proof of the charges, without which his Queen could not, in good conscience, deny a request for refuge. They awaited a reply. He expected there would be other letters and a degree of trouble before it was settled. But in time he expected Micia to lose interest.

  Shamet watched the young man train. He had not considered that the man himself might cause trouble, or worse, provoke the Queen's interest. He had made assumptions. Even caged, a tiger was a glamorous, dangerous animal. As he watched de Chamfort, Shamet recognized a hint of that danger. He decided it was time to pay their guest a visit.

  ###

  Edouard climbed the stairs to his rooms, flanked by the ever present guards. He was almost too exhausted to resent their presence. He had trained until his arms and legs ached and he was so tired he could hardly think straight. It was one way to get through the long day. It also brought reward, slowly his strength and fitness were returning. It did not solve his problems. He was not desperate or stupid enough to try and fight his way out of Micia's palace. He supposed Charles would be impressed by this newfound caution. He managed a rueful grin, it was unlikely he would ever impress his brother, or father again. He thought of Michel and the grin faded.

  He reached his rooms and slammed the door in the face of the guards.

  He leaned against the door for a moment. Then he saw the slaves were waiting. It truly was impossible to be alone in Micia's palace. He had learned that the smallest moment of privacy was a luxury.

  The slaves would not leave until they had seen to his comfort. There was an irony in that he could not quite grasp. He did not know the names of the three men who served him. When he asked for their names, they shook their heads. He did not understand why. It made it awkward to address them individually. Two of them were a bit younger than him, little more than boys. The man who seemed to be in charge was older.

  As he forced himself to move, they bowed and held that position. He had learned they would not move until he gave them an order. He wanted to yell at them to go away, but even in his anger
he could not. There were no slaves in Valderon. He did not know how to deal with men who did not have the liberty to refuse to serve him.

  The palace slaves were marked by a leopard tattoo on their upper arm and shoulder. It was little better than a brand, and he found it hard not to wince at the sight. The slaves wore short tunics, and all the male slaves he had seen kept their heads shaved. No doubt it was a better life than that of many other slaves in Allesarion. He had heard that those sent to the silver and diamond mines were worked like animals until they dropped.

  He was about to ask them to bring water, when the door he had slammed was opened, softly. The palace guards often entered without knocking to check his room. They never said what they were looking for; he had the idea it was done to enforce the knowledge that he should not expect privacy.

  Edouard turned, rage bubbling dangerously close to the surface. But the man who stood by the door was not a guard. He was tall, and dressed in the fine robes of an aristocrat. His dark hair was silvered with gray. Edouard judged him to be around the same age as his father. The man was slender, ascetic, with dark, watchful eyes. He stood quietly by the door as if waiting to be invited in.

  Edouard was not impressed by the show of diffidence. The man had entered without knocking, which hardly suggested a concern for his privacy. And despite an unthreatening appearance the man had presence. Edouard noticed the three slaves had retreated and were bowing so low their heads were nearly touching the floor. It reinforced his impression that this was someone important.

  The man came forward. He had an easy flowing gait, but Edouard judged he was not a warrior.

  "Sieur Edouard," the man bowed. "I am Lord Shamet, Queen Micia's Chancellor."

  "Lord Shamet." Edouard returned the bow with a courtly flourish, trying to pretend he was not sweaty, dusty and uncomfortable. He did not comment on the use of a title he could no longer claim.

  Lord Shamet was moving towards the balcony. "Shall we sit outside in the fresh air?" He did not wait for agreement.

  Edouard followed, trying to ignore the slurs implicit in the Lord Shamet's words, actions and tone. He knew it was part of a larger game. The sort of games his father and Charles played so well. In theory, he had been trained to play these games too. Edouard had always hated contests that did not involve sharpened steel; Lord Shamet would treat him with more respect if there was steel between them. The thought made him grin.

  At Shamet's command, the older of the slaves brought wine and poured for them both. Lord Shamet savored the wine for a moment. "I am pleased to see you are recovered."

  Shamet did not sound particularly pleased. Edouard realized he did not mean to, and that it was a warning. His grin faded, leaving his mouth dry. After hours of physical exercise in the punishing heat, he was desperately thirsty, but he did not touch the wine.

  "I owe you thanks for your care and hospitality," he said. The words were true. He did owe Micia thanks for his life. Reminded of that, he waited patiently as Shamet studied him. He endured the direct nature of the scrutiny as best he could, though it pricked his nerves and temper.

  At length, Lord Shamet inclined his head in gracious acceptance. "It is generous of Queen Micia to offer sanctuary," he agreed.

  Edouard was not sure what he was supposed to say. He said nothing. A silence developed.

  Shamet's stare was merciless. "But her protection is not given lightly, or wasted on those who are unworthy."

  Edouard managed to nod, but he could not control a flush of anger. What did this man want of him?

  As if he had heard the unspoken question, Lord Shamet set his wine aside and frowned. "There are many rumors. My Queen wishes to be fair." He paused and spread his hands, a gesture to show he did not mean to offend. "You will admit, Sieur Edouard, your arrival here was sudden. The nature of your ailment, unusual." Shamet smiled. It did not take the sting from his words, which were a masterful understatement. The warning was implicit. "Your uncle, the King, has written to us and demanded your return. If my Queen is to continue to offer you her protection, she must be reassured in these matters."

  It was tempting to tell Lord Shamet where to stuff his protection. But the Chancellor's words offered an opening Edouard was keen to accept. He attempted to look concerned, contrite and grateful. "I am sorry to have caused the Queen such difficulties." He met Shamet's gaze. "It is clear that I have placed you in an awkward position. I did not intend to."

  He struggled to find the right words, woefully unprepared. He realized some of the time he had devoted to running and practice might have been better spent preparing for such an interview. "When I left Valderon, I was injured, unwell. Thanks to your care, I am well again. I see it was a mistake to leave Valderon. It is my duty to return and answer the charges my uncle has made. I will be glad to relieve the Queen of any burden my presence has placed upon her, if she will aid me in my return."

  Lord Shamet's eyes widened a fraction, but he betrayed no other reaction. It was very quiet. Birdsong rose from the garden, the distant splash of water.

  "Your desire to return to answer the charges does you credit." Shamet was watching him closely again. Something in the Chancellor's tone warned Edouard to caution. He inclined his head in response.

  "Surely," said Shamet. "These are the words of an innocent man. And I am glad of it. Your uncle has accused you of high treason and murder. Crimes for which I believe your life would be forfeit." Shamet smiled. "If found guilty."

  The charges shocked Edouard. He fought to hide this reaction from Shamet. A moment's thought could have predicted Ferdinand's response. Edouard could not imagine why he had hoped for better. He had done nothing to earn his uncle's trust. It was in anticipation of such charges that Michel had sent him away, and it would be suicide to return without some means to prove his innocence. The Chancellor was silent, still watching him. He realized that Shamet thought he was playing a game of double bluff. And that somehow he must now play the game out.

  "It is a misunderstanding," he said. "In the heat of battle such things can occur."

  Shamet's face was unreadable. He raised his wine glass. "To innocence."

  Edouard mirrored his action. "Innocence," he said, and drank the wine off in one gulp.

  ###

  After leaving the Queen's troublesome guest, Shamet spent the rest of the afternoon with architects and stonemasons, agreeing contracts for the maintenance of the city's public buildings, and making plans for a new amphitheater. He took pleasure from the discussions with architects, reading their plans, considering new styles. Buildings were a legacy to be proud of. In particular the plans for a new theater pleased him. Such gifts pleased the people, which was important.

  He went to the Queen at the end of the day, as he always did.

  She was dressed in a loose robe; female slaves were attending to her hair, massaging her feet and hands. Later she would dress for the evening's entertainments.

  Shamet rose from his bow and settled on a divan. He sorted the papers he was to present to her, including plans for the new theater. As he waited for the Queen to speak, he was deciding what to tell her about his visit with de Chamfort.

  "You have spoken with our guest," she said.

  It was always a mistake to try and second guess her. It was also a mistake to forget that she had spies everywhere; she knew everything that went on in the palace, and in the city. He did not mind, or doubt her trust. Suspicion was a legacy of her childhood and the brutal way she had come to power. Betrayals such as she had suffered were harsh lessons, never forgotten.

  "He is well again. I thought it was time to speak with him, majesty," he said.

  "And, what do you make of him?"

  He watched the girls rub oil into the Queen's supple, youthful skin. Another girl brushed her golden hair until it shone like silk.

  "He is no more than we expected, perhaps less, a dull Valderon knight," he spoke casually.

  "The Vallentin are not known for being boring or dull. It is not what I ha
ve heard of his father, or brother."

  Shamet shrugged. "Perhaps his father and brother have all the family's wit."

  She gave a pout of displeasure. "You disappoint me, Shamet."

  He frowned, warned by her choice of words. As she had no doubt intended. "It is simple enough; he has spent more time with swords than books, held a lance more often than a pen. No doubt he knows more about horses than people."

  "One meeting and he has earned such contempt." Micia laughed. "He has annoyed you so much?"

  Shamet considered the idea. It was true, the boy had annoyed him and he had no wish to pique Micia's interest in him. "It seems he must be murderer, traitor or fool. Perhaps all three. He seeks our aid but does not bother to prepare a plausible story. He undoubtedly has connections to dark magic. Despite all this he is arrogant. I am sure there is some other more deserving of your protection."

  Micia could not abide traitors. Now that her pleasure at the chance to slight Ferdinand had passed, Shamet was certain she would judge the case wisely. He did not mention that the young man had claimed to want to return to Valderon, or that he said he was prepared to face King Ferdinand's justice. First, he would ensure the outcome he desired, the best outcome for Micia and Allesarion.

  Micia dismissed the slave girls attending her. She settled back among the cushions. "Soon we will have King Ferdinand's reply. You believe we should send de Chamfort back?"

  He had always thought so. "We should. It will earn us Ferdinand's gratitude. To be in our debt on such a matter, will be a bitter humiliation for him." From the corridor came the tramp of feet, followed by softly voiced commands. Micia's personal guard was changing. It was a sound to which he was accustomed, but one he always noted.