Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  Roslaire was with the King. A noticeable presence at Ferdinand's side, he was dressed in satin and pearls, a provocative display of wealth. Despite this he had Ferdinand's full attention, a level of respect the King gave to few. The court took note.

  Mariette was not sure what game Roslaire was playing. She did not doubt it had high stakes. If she stepped back in to his world, she would have to play for the same stakes. Perhaps it had been a mistake to return to court. The game was harder than she remembered. She had been determined to show them she did not care, that she regretted nothing. The court was not easily fooled. Her very determination to be unconcerned gave too much away. A deception so obvious it made her look foolish.

  Or perhaps her mistake had been to think she stood any chance of persuading Roslaire to help her. It mattered more than she had expected. She was caught on the thorns of her pride. That same pride would not let her admit defeat. It seemed she could not give up the game so easily.

  There were several obstacles to overcome. She had known her return to court would excite comment and had dressed with care for this first night on display, returning to the role she had played so successfully. Another mistake, recalling too clearly her liaison with a traitor.

  Mirrors lined the blue salon. A reflection of her face hovered at the edge of perception. Pale skin, a hint of rouge on cheeks and lips, the effect and intent was obvious. It was like looking back in time. She had dressed to play the game. If Roslaire had noticed, he was ignoring her. She doubted he was unaware, even if his attention seemed focused on the King. She did not like to be ignored. As if her presence was beneath his notice. The thought brought a flush to her face.

  "Mariette! How lovely to see you."

  Caught unawares, it took her a moment to recognize Diane's voice. Another moment to hide her dismay. She was not ready for Diane. The Baroness bent to embrace her. A kiss to each cheek, a firm hand drawing her from the card table.

  "Come," said Diane. "There is someone you must meet."

  She rose obediently. Her anger half hidden beneath a courtier's mask, she let Diane draw her away from the card tables. They walked together in silence until they were beyond the reach of prying eyes and ears.

  "I did not think you would return to court so soon," said Diane. A gentle enough rebuke from this woman.

  "I did not intend to." There was no point lying. She would need Diane's blessing to do the thing she planned. It was not certain she would receive it.

  "All is well at Montmercy?"

  She nodded. Diane would know her return to court had nothing to do with Montmercy.

  "The children are well?"

  It was weeks since she had seen Francis and Caterine. Parting from them had been hard, and she had promised to return soon. She had thought to be back with them by now. Another promise broken. "They are very well, thank you."

  "They must miss you."

  She sighed, unwilling to play the game. Diane's enquiries seemed harmless, but Mariette was not fooled. She knew Diane. They walked the length of the corridor and stopped by a window overlooking the palace gardens. Mariette checked to be certain they were alone.

  "I need your help." It was not easy to ask.

  Diane waited for her to continue.

  The words were hard to find. She understood how many ways this request might be misconstrued. "I want to go to Allesarion."

  A moment's silence, Diane's smile was enigmatic. "Why?"

  "The Compact planned to question Edouard. We still need that information. There is much we do not know."

  "Yes." Diane agreed. "But things have changed. I have passed all our evidence to Ferdinand. Our part is finished. It is the King's business now."

  "But our part is not done. It is not over." This was the heart of her argument. "The Compact, led by Jaime and Brother Liam, are searching for the shadow creature."

  Diane nodded. The smile was gone. "What you are suggesting is something different."

  "But just as important," she said. "There are things he can tell us. Things no other man can know."

  "And you are aware it is not that simple," said Diane. "Ferdinand has his traitor. He will have his revenge. Do you really want to interfere?"

  She had thought about how Ferdinand would view her actions. "We brought Ferdinand the evidence he needed."

  "You think he will let you go without question?"

  She did not answer.

  "To go without his leave would be foolish, perhaps dangerous," Diane guessed her intent at once. She sounded concerned. "If he thought..."

  Mariette said nothing. This was why she needed the Compact. And one of the reasons she needed Roslaire.

  The time for games was past. "We need to know the truth," she said, watching for Diane's reaction.

  The Baroness was too much of a courtier to betray one. "There is only one way this can end now, Mariette. Be careful."

  The warning was well meant, she judged. "I would know the truth before it is done."

  "You have some reason to believe that it is other than we have told the King?"

  She took a moment to consider her answer. "No, but there is still too much we don't know. That is dangerous. The shadow creature and the shadow knights are still a threat." Her own need for certainty must be secondary, she knew that, but it was what drove her.

  Diane considered for a moment. "Jaime and the monk are searching for the creature." She paused. "It is something they need to do."

  "And I need to do this." She did not want to say more. Every word was a trap. She could not admit to doubts, not even to herself.

  Diane turned from her, staring out of the window. It was dark now and there was nothing to see. Mariette laced her fingers together, holding herself still. She had to know. With each moment it mattered more. She realized that even if Diane denied her the Compact's blessing she would still find a way to go to Allesarion.

  Diane turned, lips pursed slightly, as if what she would say displeased her. "Ferdinand is sending an embassy to Allesarion."

  "Who?"

  "Clement St Andre will lead it."

  Mariette nodded. "It is done, as you say. But that changes nothing. We must have the truth."

  "What is it you want of me?"

  "The Compact's blessing. In time, Ferdinand will want to know what we can learn now from Edouard."

  "Very well. If it becomes necessary, I will tell him you travel on the Compact's behalf."

  "Thank you."

  "Do not thank me. I do not recommend this course, but I will not stop you."

  This was a very clear warning. Mariette understood. "I have to hear it from him."

  "Be careful," Diane reached out to touch her arm, a strangely maternal gesture. "He is a condemned man, nothing will change that now. If you have feelings for him, put them aside."

  "I don't," she insisted. "That's not why I'm going." She saw Diane was not convinced. Mariette said nothing more; to protest further would not strengthen her position.

  ###

  It was one thing to approach Diane, asking for Roslaire's help was a different problem. Explaining why she wanted to go to Allesarion was a challenge that would test her skills. When she returned to the salon, he was not there. She went to his rooms.

  The walk through the palace courtyards and gardens gave her time to think. To imagine how he might greet her. She was putting herself at his mercy. It was an uncomfortable thought. They had been lovers and sometime allies, but she was not sure they had ever been friends. Did Roslaire have friends? Did she?

  He answered to her knock quickly. As if she was expected.

  "Duchess." He bowed. "How may I serve?"

  She stepped past him, ignoring the silky threat in his voice. The room was dark, only firelight and one lamp. He had removed his jacket. The fine linen shirt was unlaced and revealed an old scar across his breastbone. She knew his scars. It was an intimate reminder of their shared past. A glass of wine stood on the table. He moved past her to pour another glass. He turned to offer
it to her. Rings glittered on his fingers. The light caught his golden curls, but his eyes were shadowed.

  It occurred to her that she was not who he had been expecting. She pushed the thought aside.

  "So," he said. "Will you tell me why you are here?"

  "Must there be a reason. I came to visit a friend?" She took a risk, playing games with him, but revealing too much was just as dangerous.

  "I do not want to be your friend, sweet Duchess."

  Insult or compliment. She did not know, and it would be foolish to challenge him. She had forgotten; Roslaire did not play courtier's games. When he played the stakes were always high. He was watching her, giving nothing away. She might almost think...

  "So will you tell me why I am so honored? Pleasant as this is, it has been a busy day." He gave her his full attention, but his tone and words were chosen to provoke.

  She walked past him, smoothing her dress. There were things more important than pride. It was a lesson she had learned, painfully. When she turned to face him the smile came easily, the slight lowering of her lashes was almost natural.

  Roslaire did not follow her. He propped his hip against the table, seemingly relaxed, and raised his glass to her. He savored the wine before he spoke. "There is something you want from me?"

  She swallowed the urge to tell him there was nothing on this earth she wanted from him.

  "You're angry with me?" she asked. "I have done something to offend?"

  A long moment of silence. "What is it you want, Mariette?"

  "I need to speak with Edouard de Chamfort."

  The silence was longer this time. Long enough that he emptied his glass and refilled it. "What has that to do with me?"

  A fair question. "To speak with him I must go to Allesarion. I cannot do that without your help."

  He turned away and set the glass aside. "The King is sending an embassy; your boy may be back here soon enough."

  She ignored his tone. "I know of the embassy. Once they have Edouard, there will be no chance to learn the truth."

  "You do not think Ferdinand wants to know the truth?"

  "Who is leading the embassy," she asked.

  Roslaire inclined his head to acknowledge her point.

  She continued, "This is the end game. Clement St Andre, son of the slain Marechal, will speak movingly of his glorious and virtuous father and of his death by treachery. That is the only truth Ferdinand will hear now."

  Roslaire regarded her impassively. "Clement St Andre will give Micia the Compact's evidence."

  "I know." They both understood that, faced with such evidence, it would not be politic for Micia to refuse the embassy. "That is why I must see him now."

  "Why do you need me? There are other captains, other vessels." Before she could answer he laughed. "You will attempt to go without the King's permission."

  "I cannot risk asking. There is no time for delay."

  "And Ferdinand has his truth," said Roslaire, softly.

  He had not moved, but she sensed something had changed. Shadows flickered as he shifted position. "I will find a berth for you and your men on one of my vessels. I will make the arrangements."

  "As soon as possible."

  He nodded, watching her with a hooded gaze. "Be ready to travel. I will let you know when it is done."

  It was a dismissal, but she had what she wanted. She let him escort her to the door. "Thank you, Roslaire." She put a hand on his arm. "This is important. The truth is important."

  His face was guarded. "And if I had refused, what would you have done?"

  She smiled and shrugged with a lightness she did not feel. He could still refuse her. "Does it really matter?"

  After a moment he laughed. "Perhaps not. As always it is my pleasure to be used, but this is a dangerous game, even for you, sweet Duchess."

  She did not attempt to answer him. They stood in silence for a moment, then she turned away.

  As she walked back through the palace gardens, the cool night air soothed her nerves. Roslaire always managed to unsettle her, but she had what she wanted, elation warred with apprehension.

  It was not until later she remembered he had been waiting for someone. The thought was strangely displeasing.

  Chapter 90

  Edouard lazed on the sun-warmed stone benches of the coliseum. Through half closed eyes, he watched a group of gladiators train. They were coupled off for blade work. The clash of steel was precise as they advanced and retreated, cut and blocked as one unit.

  He yawned and looked away, bored despite the gladiators' precision and discipline. He could not imagine being one of a crowd, indistinguishable. These were lower rank gladiators who had not made their name or won a following with the crowd. None of them would last a week at Chamfort.

  He tipped his face to the sun. By midday the temperature in the arena would soar and in the afternoon huge awnings would be strung above the tiered seating to provide shade for the spectators. On the sand, it would be hotter than hell. Edouard had learned how punishing that heat was to fight in, especially on the sand of the arena; it made him a half yard slower, sapped his strength and dulled his wits. Lex told him the more time he spent training in the arena, the more accustomed to the heat he would become.

  He heard the scuff of sandals against stone and opened his eyes. The gladiators liked to play pranks, and it was a mistake to get too comfortable. He had learned to be wary of unexpected showers of icy water and worse. He looked up warily.

  Lex grinned as he vaulted the wall that edged the section. The gladiator settled beside Edouard on the bench and stretched like a cat. "Good morning," he said. "Do you come to the arena for a rest? I would think you'd want all the practice you can get, before the Athari kick your ass." He smiled.

  Edouard grinned back and made a rude gesture towards the arena. "I don't need to drill like a little boy with a wooden sword."

  Relaxed as he might seem, Lex's gaze was on the gladiators in the arena below, assessing, judging. "You think you're too good for them?" It was not clear whether he meant the drills or the gladiators.

  Edouard supposed it might have sounded a bit arrogant, but he wasn't sorry. Being around Lex was a little like being around Angelo, eventually everything became a contest, though rarely a fight. He turned his attention to the gladiators. They sparred with short blades, carrying out routine drills, precise sequences of strokes repeated several times then varied and repeated again. The rows of gladiators moved as one man. The drills did not impress him, there was no edge or bite to them; he believed drilling in this way dulled skill rather than enhanced it. "I don't see the gain in achieving such uniform precision, what point is there? They are not going to fight as a unit," he said.

  "It's no different to knowing the weight and heft of a weapon precisely." Lex glanced sideways at him. "To perform a move to an exact standard is an art, and there are ways that sort of precision can serve a purpose."

  Edouard supposed Lex had a point, but he was not going to admit it. "It looks like stick dancing, pretty but pointless?" he suggested innocently. As if to support his point, in the arena the gladiators changed sequence and their blades set a new rhythm.

  Lex gave an unwilling grunt of laughter. "In some ways. But don’t let anyone hear you say that."

  Edouard watched the smooth change of stance, mirrored in each man, and allowed a grudging moment of approval. "So what is the benefit?" If the gladiators worked to a purpose, he wanted to know what he was missing.

  This time Lex’s sideways glance was appraising. He shrugged. "Sometimes we put on a show." This was offered almost reluctantly and did not encourage further questions.

  It was not what Edouard had expected, and the gladiator’s tone warned him to tread carefully. "A show?"

  "The crowds like blood and drama."

  "They get enough of it," he said, not hiding his distaste. He had not witnessed the executions, but he had heard the condemned criminals fought like cornered rats. He could imagine there was little a ma
n would not do to win a chance of life.

  Lex shook his head. "For the crowds, watching a man you've followed and supported bleed, offers a different kind of excitement." The words were spoken without rancor or inflection, making it hard to tell what he truly thought of the spectators' passion.

  "They want to see the gladiators bleed and die? Courage and skill are not enough, so you give them show fights?" He could not keep a measure of contempt from his voice.

  Lex shrugged. "Sometimes. It is necessary." He didn't say why. In the arena the gladiators had stopped drilling and begun sparring in earnest. Lex raised a hand to shade his eyes as he studied them. "It takes more skill than you would imagine. And we don't speak of it, ever." He said this mildly, but there was no missing the warning. "You won't get ready for the Athari sitting on your ass." Lex rose, smooth as a hunting cat. "Come on."

  Edouard looked up at him, warily. He rarely sparred with Lex, the man was gladiator royalty. Perhaps this was about payback for his comments. If so it was time for diplomacy. Gladiators had their own code and skill of a sort; if standards and ideals were higher in Valderon, it was best not to make unfair comparisons.

  A smile touched the corners of Lex's mouth as if the thought had been spoken aloud. He turned away. "Come, Sieur Edouard, dazzle us with your skill."

  The barb hit the mark and in a heartbeat, his good intentions were forgotten. "So," he said. "I've worked out the difference between a felon and a gladiator."

  "You'd know, or so I hear," said Lex without looking round.

  A sharper cut this time, Lex was as accurate with words as he was with a blade. It took Edouard a moment to recover. "Gladiators get to cheat," he snarled.

  The gladiator did not look back or answer. Left with little choice, he followed Lex down the steps to the arena's edge. Lex vaulted the wall. Edouard matched him, landing lightly on the sand at his side. The silence was tense as they stood waiting while one of the attendants went to fetch swords. Given the choice, Lex selected a blade and casually tossed the other to Edouard. He caught it without losing any fingers.

  Lex raised a hand and gradually the other gladiators stopped sparring. Silence settled over the arena. "Come," he called to them. "We are honored to have a knight of Valderon willing to show us his skill." A roar of laughter greeted this invitation. All the gladiators and trainers turned to watch.