Chapter 98
She had failed, terribly, but Mariette could not leave. Not until she knew the result of Clement St Andre's embassy. She thought there might be word from the palace, from Micia. For three days she waited in the villa and heard nothing.
When Roslaire finally had news, he did not want to tell her. She saw it in his face. He tried, as he had for the last three days, to get her to leave Allesarion. She refused to think of leaving until she learned the outcome of the embassy.
Roslaire shook his head. "There is nothing we can accomplish here now."
"Hugo died. Too much has happened. I can't leave this unfinished."
He did not like her answer, but it was not one he could gainsay. In truth, it was more complicated. After speaking with Edouard, she could not silence her doubts.
Perhaps Roslaire understood this, though she had told him little of her meeting with Edouard. Roslaire accepted she had failed to get answers to the Compact's questions. On the most important question, the names of those behind the shadow evil, he was prepared to believe Edouard did not know. He let the suggestion that they return to Fourges die. It was clear he thought she should leave Edouard to his fate. What was done was done. He never said this, but it hung between them, unspoken.
On the fourth day, Roslaire returned early from a visit to the city. He came straight to her. She knew what this haste meant.
"The embassy has made its case. It is over," he said. He prowled to the terrace and settled on a seat in the shade beneath the vines. She waited until he spoke again.
"It went badly for de Chamfort. He made no answer to the charges."
"Why did he not answer?" she asked.
"One of the strengths of St Andre's suit has always been that his father's death at de Chamfort's hand was murder, an attempt to cover up his treason at Ralmadre. There is a witness, and Clement brought sworn statements to what occurred that day. He claims the evidence proves his father was murdered. De Chamfort claims that it was an honor duel. That the Marechal consented to the duel to settle the differences between them over what happened at Ralmadre." Roslaire took a breath, and let it out slowly. "It is not a bad argument, but he would not be able to gainsay the witness's testimony, and the formalities that normally accompany an honor duel were not observed. And raising Ralmadre would be dangerous for him."
"So?"
"Without the formalities, without seconds and a chosen time and fighting ground, the claim that it was an honor duel loses credence. It looks like murder and gives Clement his case."
"But St Andre had men with him. Edouard was outnumbered; Michel died. How can they claim he was the aggressor?"
Roslaire's hesitation was subtle. She saw by his face that she had betrayed too much. "Tell me," she demanded.
"Set against what happened at Ralmadre, it looks bad. De Chamfort had motive to attack the Marechal. And he has no way to refute the charge."
"But I thought there was no proof that he was guilty of wrongdoing at Ralmadre?" There was something he was not telling her.
"As I say, he cannot prove that he was not at fault in some manner."
"An impasse then," she said. "Tell me the rest."
Again the hesitation, this time followed by a slight shrug. "You know Clement has the Compact's evidence. He used the worst of it and left out any reference to his father. After such accusations, there could be little doubt of the outcome. Micia cannot shelter a man accused of such crimes."
She had expected this. Over the last days, she had come to dread it. Once Ferdinand had chosen to send Clement, it was clear St Andre's guilt would not be raised. It was too late, but her own certainty in their evidence had been shaken. Cat's belief in Edouard's innocence haunted her. It was the reason why she could not leave before this was done.
"There is more, Mariette."
"Tell me."
"Micia accepted St Andre's case and ruled that de Chamfort must answer the accusations in Valderon." He paused, glanced behind him as servants voices passed in the courtyard.
When he turned back, she caught a glimpse of his face. "Tell me all of it," she said.
He took a breath. "De Chamfort demanded the right to an honor duel."
She felt a mix of feelings too complex to understand. "Clement would be mad to accept. An honor duel is a fight to the death."
Roslaire shook his head. "Clement did accept, but he claimed the right to nominate a champion."
She knew what would come. It explained something that had puzzled them both. This was the reason Gaspard de Nortial had come with Clement to Allesarion. She waited until Roslaire continued.
"De Chamfort accepted St Andre's right to name a champion. St Andre nominated Gaspard de Nortial to fight in his place. De Chamfort accepted the challenge."
"When will it happen?" she asked.
"In two days' time."
"Do you think this is what Ferdinand wanted?"
Sunlight glinted on golden curls as Roslaire rose and left his place in the shade. He shrugged. "The duel has royal sanction. If the matter is settled here, some things will be easier for Ferdinand. If the outcome is as he desires." He came to stand before her. "We should leave. This will not end well and it may be dangerous. You do not travel under the King's protection. You visited de Chamfort. Your presence here could be misunderstood."
She shook her head, not bothering with words, knowing he did not expect her to agree.
"Mariette, there is nothing you can do and there is more to this than you can know."
"Then tell me."
"It seems Gaspard de Nortial is known in Allesarion. There are rumors that Micia has used de Nortial's services in the past. We cannot know what games are being played. It is even possible Micia or Shamet has made a deal with Ferdinand."
There was still something he was not telling her. "Tell me about the duel," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment, but in the end he answered. "Micia has decided that they will fight in the arena at the coliseum. It will be a public contest."
Games indeed: deadly games and played out as a public spectacle. Had Micia made some deal with Ferdinand? But Edouard had asked for the honor duel. Surely he would have known that Clement could nominate a champion, and it was not hard to guess who that champion would be. If so, why would Edouard take such a risk? Did he believe he could defeat de Nortial?
She knew Gaspard de Nortial's reputation for brutality. It was matched only by his unnatural strength and skill. On the battlefield, no knight had ever stood against him. The man was a legend, truly a dark knight, but he had the King's favor. There were many rumors about how he had earned his knighthood, and how he kept the King's favor despite his notoriety: these rumors hinted at dark deeds in service of the King. Was this another such service?
Whether he was Clement St Andre's man, Micia's or Ferdinand's did not matter. Gaspard de Nortial was a killer. But, in truth, so was Edouard, that was why they were here.
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Mariette had seen the coliseum, from a distance. It was impossible to avoid the sight of it within the city. It was a statement of power, of extravagance and brutality. If the walls had run with blood, its purpose could not have been more explicit. It was not a place she would have chosen to enter. But it drew her now.
They had been invited, a formal summons delivered by the Queen's herald. Micia had sent a carriage and outriders to escort them to the coliseum. This escort gave Mariette a feeling of being taken against her will. She resisted a sense of powerlessness; this was her choice. She was here to complete a task started a year before. She was here because Hugo and hundreds of others had died, and many more if she included Ralmadre. She had chosen this duty and she would see it through.
Close to the coliseum, crowds blocked the roads. The sun was high and the massive stone amphitheater cast a vast shadow. As they passed into the shadow, she shivered.
Roslaire was at her side. He was unhappy. When he set himself a task, Roslaire de Lyon did not like to fail. He had co
me to Allesarion to protect her and she would not allow him to protect her. They had argued. When he could not dissuade her from accepting Micia's invitation, she thought he had considered taking her from Allesarion by force. He had been wise enough not to try.
She understood his concern. It was not just Edouard. There was personal risk here; Micia's interest was capricious, not necessarily benign. Even understanding how well the scorpion queen deserved her name, Mariette was sure Micia's invitation had been made for practical reasons. She had tried to explain this to Roslaire.
"I think it is important we are there," she said, watching his face.
He betrayed nothing. "There are others present from Valderon who will bear witness. It is for the King's embassy to carry word of what happens."
She shook her head. "We act as witnesses for the Compact."
Roslaire prowled the room. "The duel has royal endorsement. Micia will send papers and a herald to confirm the duel's probity. It will be witnessed by half the city."
"In Fourges that will count for as little, or much, as Ferdinand allows, whereas your words, my words, will have power the King cannot control."
"Now you will be his champion?" Roslaire stared at her, as if he could not believe her so capricious. He clearly thought the whole conversation moot. She saw he was losing patience. He was concerned for her, and unable to say what he wished to say, to give her the warning she would not hear.
He was still as a hunting cat as the carriage passed beneath the arches of the coliseum, bringing them into the tunnels that led to the royal enclosure. The entrance was marked by changes, from light to dark, heat to cool. They were entering another world.
Lord Shamet was waiting to greet them. His bow was perfect. His presence convinced her that they were here to play a part.
She could hear the roar of the crowd and realized the games must be underway. It was not something she had expected. Lord Shamet met her gaze.
"There are other contests taking place before the honor duel, which will be fought at the end of the afternoon." He did not offer her the chance to avoid witnessing these other contests.
Mariette understood well enough that in this, as in everything, he acted as the Queen desired. Roslaire was at her side. He touched her elbow, as if he would lead her away from the arena. The carriage was gone, but she knew he was about to ask for it to be recalled, to insist that they return only in time to witness the honor duel. She knew he was probably right. He understood Allesarion, and he understood the arena. She spoke before he could.
"It is gracious of her majesty to invite us," she said. If this was a test, she would meet it without flinching.
Shamet bowed again, his look was measuring, but he said nothing more. He led them through the tunnel and up stone stairs. Stepping out into the stands, the noise and heat redoubled. She glanced briefly to the arena sands where a contest was underway between four men, two with swords and two with net and trident. She watched for a moment and turned away, unimpressed by their skill. She did not think these were gladiators. If they were not, Roslaire had told her enough that she knew what to expect.
Unlike the rest of the seating, the royal enclosure was richly decorated. It was shaded beneath colored awnings. Slaves stirred the air with huge fans. The purple and white silk billowed softly though there hardly seemed to be a breeze. Even beneath its shade, Mariette felt the heat. The seats were carved from ivory and draped with silk. There were cushions and a footstool. As Shamet brought them to their seat, slaves knelt to offer wine and fruit.
She took the wine.
The royal enclosure was half full. Another indication that they had been brought here early. She supposed they were here to witness the arena's brutality. Perhaps Micia felt the main event would not offer drama enough. Mariette smiled, presenting a perfect courtier's mask to Lord Shamet.
"I will be close by," said Lord Shamet. He did not smile. "If there is anything you need."
Mariette inclined her head, graciously. She had played court games for long enough. "Your concern is most kind," she spoke softly, with deference.
Shamet held her gaze. "My Queen desires your presence here. She also desired that you were prepared for what you will witness."
Mariette was aware of a lull in the crowd's noise, like the moment before a storm breaks. The urge to look down into the arena was strong, compelling. She looked. One of the men was wounded and in trouble. He staggered, a hand clutched to his side. Blood oozed beneath his fingers, and his sword hung useless in his other hand.
"If he lets the sword fall, it will mark his surrender. He can ask for mercy." Lord Shamet offered soft words, at odds with the drama below and the baying crowd.
"Will it be given?" she asked.
"These are criminals," said Shamet. "They fight to redeem themselves. Victory offers them the chance of a new life. Only the bravest win that chance. It is rare that mercy is offered to the defeated."
The crowd was roaring, screaming and baying like animals eager for blood. The sound sent prickles along her skin. They wanted a death. The injured man still held his sword. One look at his face showed he had no hope of mercy. He retreated, staggering in the deep sand at the arena's edge; one of the men with net and trident pursued him. The other two circled and stabbed at each other. She wondered what a death meant for the contest, was it over, did it end the fight for the other three men?
She could not look away. The injured man limped and stumbled away from his pursuer, all dignity gone, like a wounded animal seeking sanctuary. The man with the trident did not hurry. Perhaps he was playing to the crowd, hoping to earn their good favor. At last, as the wounded man reached the arena wall, the man with the trident surged forward.
The wounded man's mouth was wide, but any cry he made was lost beneath the crowd's roar. For a terrible moment, Mariette thought he would try to climb the wall. There were guards posted on the walkways above and no chance of escape. He turned back, struggled to raise his sword, but he could not stand straight or lift the weight of the blade. Then he attempted to run.
The crowd screamed, even around her in the royal enclosure she could hear women and men crying for blood. In the arena, the trident carrier pursued his prey. The net spun through the air and captured the injured man's legs. He fell, sprawling inelegantly in the sand, arms thrashing as his enemy approached. The trident pierced his back. She could see the effort it took to drive it home etched on the victor's face. But he was smiling as he turned to acknowledge the crowd's roar. He picked up the fallen man's sword and turned to yank the trident from the dying man's back. Then he turned back to the fight.
The man lay where he had fallen. Mariette could see by the small movements of his arms and legs that he was attempting to crawl, to find some kind of shelter, or privacy. No one came to aid him or carry him from the arena. It seemed he would be left to die slowly, his blood soaking the sand. It was obscene.
Shamet was still beside them. He watched the scene in the arena impassively, or so it seemed. She could not tell if he felt pleasure or distaste. Perhaps he had seen it so often he felt nothing.
"Will they take him from the arena?" she asked.
Shamet shook his head, gravely. "These men do not gain honor in death."
"An animal would receive more mercy," she said.
The silence lasted a dozen heartbeats. Then Shamet met her gaze. "Are thieves and murderers not punished in Valderon?"
"Not like this," she said.
"But they die?"
"They die, but their death is not an entertainment." She thought of the crowds gathered to watch a hanging. But it was different to this spectacle. "The death they are given is quick and clean."
"But a public death nonetheless," said Shamet. "There is a reason that such things must be public. It is so a message can be given. The rule of law protects the Queen's subjects."
"You would argue that this," she waved a hand towards the sands but did not look at the fight again. "Is done to protect the people."
> He nodded. "We are not so different. A life is taken in retribution for a crime." His words were cool and precise. "These men have a chance to win back their lives; would you deny them that chance? That choice."
"It is not much of a choice." She put force into the words, meeting his challenge. "To survive by killing others."
"How else does a warrior survive?" he asked. "But it is about more than the killing. It is a show of courage and perhaps of skill. It is a way to prove their value to Allesarion."
"Is that how we should judge a man?" she asked.
"How to judge a man," Lord Shamet's face was grave as he addressed her. "It is not an easy thing to resolve, my lady."
She inclined her head in agreement but challenged him with her answer. "Surely there are ways a man, or woman, can be judged. By the choices they have made. By the good they do." She knew now what he wanted, and she would not give it to him. "By the harm they do others. It is not an easy thing to make such judgments, but it must be done. Or else there is nothing better than this," she looked to the arena.
Roslaire touched her arm, a warning.
In the arena, the three men circled, testing the new balance of the contest. She did not watch. Instead she watched Shamet. He did not seem offended by her words. But nor did he offer the explanation she was seeking.
She tried again. "It is a lottery," she said, raising a hand to the arena. "This is not justice." He would know she was also speaking of what would happen later. Her anger that a resolution would come in such a manner, in a way that failed those who had suffered, the way it failed Valderon.
He did not answer at once. The roar of the crowd filled the silence. She noticed that his gaze had turned towards the contest in the arena. Against her will she looked. A glance told her what had happened. Two of the men had joined forces to attack the other. It was clear that the single man would not stand long against the two.
Shamet turned back to her, his gaze was measuring. "In Allesarion a man is judged by the battles he fights and wins, not all involve combat with weapons."
Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3) Page 95