by Vox Day
“Why does anyone wish to know anything? In my case, I should like to know because I am charged with the responsibility of bringing the maiden of the aforementioned name to her future husband. He awaits her even now, so that she may be betrothed within the bell, and I daresay he would be bitterly disappointed were he to find himself engaged to marry a reaver maiden given to frothing at the mouth, stripping naked, and biting at shields every time she loses her temper instead of the legitimate heir to the Isles de Loup.”
“You make the mistake,” she told him, both confused and amused by his words. “I am Fjotra, daughter to the Skullbreaker, but I have no husband and no betrothed.”
“You will shortly,” he assured her. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to come this way, your royal highness, I will escort you to your destination. My name, not that it will mean anything to you, is Donzeau, and I am in service to the Duc de Chenevin.”
Fjotra nodded absently, her mind racing. Donzeau was correct that his name meant nothing to her, but she knew she had heard of the duc before. But where? There weren’t so many duches in Savondir that she should not be able to place the man’s liege. The comtesse had taught them all to her, but it wasn’t the sort of knowledge one needed in Raknarborg, so she’d forgotten. She mentally ticked them off. Savonne, Meridiony, Ecarlate, Lutece, Aubonne, Carouge, Vevenny…. Chenevin!
Her eyes narrowed.
“The Duc de Chenevin…he is the king’s son, yes?”
“Indeed, he is of the blood royal, as are you, if one takes an extraordinarily broad perspective on the matter. But never mind that. Of such fictions are the grandest civilizations built. In my experience, be the blood red or blue, it all bleeds the same.”
“Yes,” Fjotra said. She did not trust this troldmand who smiled as he killed and called his victims friends. But she knew he could easily prevent her from fleeing, and besides, she was sure there was some mistake. Perhaps the Duc de Chenevin had misunderstood how matters stood and thought she was already engaged to marry Prince Karl. Since Le Christophe had only just arrived today, he did not yet know that his brother was dead and that he was now their father’s heir. If nothing else, she owed it to Prince Karl to break the news to his brother as gently as she could. “You may take me to the duc.”
Donzeau bowed, though whether he was mocking her or not, she could not tell. “The honor is mine, Your Highness.” He led them back the way they’d come, until they were back in the more prosperous commercial quarter again, where she could smell the sea and some of the buildings began to look familiar to her.
And not just to her. As they turned a corner near a blue building that housed a butcher, judging by the ham hocks hanging suspended outside, Geirrid caught up to her and whispered in her ear.
“I know how to get to the ship from here. I’ll go get help.”
“No!” Fjotra whispered urgently back, and she tried to grab Geirrid’s wrist, but her brave friend was too quick for her and adroitly eluded her. She didn’t dare to look back, not wanting to alert Donzeau, but the rapid patter of the brown-haired girl’s feet on the cobblestones as she dashed across the street seemed loud enough to drown out the pounding of her heartbeat.
Her heart froze as the troldmand, without breaking stride, raised his left hand and made a simple gesture. There was a crashing sound to her left, but Fjotra managed to keep herself from looking until she heard Svanhvit scream. She whipped her head around and saw Geirrid sprawled out motionless on the far side of the street. Next to her lay a cobblestone that had ripped itself from the street.
“What have you done?” Fjotra screamed in Dalarn.
Donzeau turned around, a half-smile on his face.
Seeing it enraged her. She leaped forward and grabbed his throat with one hand. “If she is dead, I rip out your eyes and feed them to you before I give you to the sky god!”
“And they say northern girls are ice princesses.” The troldmand, unconcerned, calmly met her eyes. She felt a gradual but irresistible pressure forcing her fingers back. He answered her in her own language. “What I have done is show you the foolishness of defying the duc’s will. Look. The girl is barely harmed—already she stirs. But the next time, I shall do worse than simply bounce a rock off her thick barbarian head, do you understand me, Princess Skullbreaker?”
Fjotra glared at him, but her fury was mitigated by her relief at the sight of Geirrid sitting up and staring at the blood on her hand. She switched back to Savonnais. “Yes, I understand. May Svanhvit go help her?”
“So long as they both come with us and don’t try to run again.” Donzeau waited, his arms folded, until the two girls had made their way back across the street to them. Then he addressed them in the northern tongue. “Ladies, her royal highness here is sufficiently brave, stubborn, and proud to place her life at risk. This means that other disciplinary means are required. So you two shall stand for her good behavior, and I trust you will remind her of that if need be, since it is your lives that are at stake. Do you understand what that means?”
Geirrid nodded. Svanhvit only looked confused.
“Sacre Dieu!” Donzeau shook his head in disgust. “It means I will kill you if she doesn’t behave.” He turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
The three girls stared at each other in shock for a moment, then quickly made haste to follow him.
AULAN
Across the city, young men and women alike had been frantic with activity for the last few weeks. For the young patricians, it was the time when they declared themselves as candidates for the lower offices that would one day qualify them for the magistracies. There were only twenty-four tribuneships and twenty quastorships available each year. However, the term of office was almost irrelevant, as once elected, a competent young man would find himself in demand for everything from legionary general staffs to provincial governorships. And while election to the first two offices in the cursus honorum were not absolutely required in order to find employment with the senatorial elite, it was rare for anyone not to do so.
Unless, of course, you were the son of the second man in Amorr and you were marrying the daughter of the first man.
Aulan examined his future brother-in-law with a slightly envious eye as they stood outside. It was dark, but the short walk to the Comitium, the large square that faced the senate house, was lined with torches. The December air was cold, but their thick wool cloaks provided them with sufficient protection against it, especially since there was little wind.
Sextus Valerius had never stood for tribune, had never spent a winter in the freezing filth of a legionary casta, and he would never need to ruin himself to entertain the public with a series of increasingly decadent spectacles or spend a year of his life poring through the highly fictional accounts of provincial officials, pretending as if his efforts would even slightly dam the river of moneyed corruption that began in the provinces and reached flood-like proportions in the city. A few ritual words, a simple consummation, and all the Senate would be at his feet as soon as he was of age, courtesy of his father and father-in-law.
For whatever that was worth, Aulan reminded himself. Amorr was on the cusp of the greatest change it had known since the Houses Martial had risen against the last Andronican king, and it was impossible to know exactly what form that change would take. He was no philosopher or historian, but in three years of legionary duty, he’d learned that nothing ever played out when or how it was expected. Killing that poor Valerian farmer had been the first mission to go as planned in months. He’d been half-shocked when he and his men didn’t find themselves in the midst of a plebian riot or discover that the Valerian was surrounded by a bodyguard of retired ex-gladitorial champions.
His father blithely assumed, no doubt correctly, that he would ride the inevitable chaos like a master charioteer, guiding it to take him precisely where he wanted to go. The problem was what would come after him. For all his ambition and arrogance, his father was almost wholly uninterested in the temptations that pl
agued lesser men. He’d been the only governor to end his term ruling Ptolus Triticus a poorer man than when he began. Governance of the wealthy, grain-rich province was much sought after by proconsuls, as one year there produced more tax revenue than four in almost any other province.
Aulan had no doubts that his father was right to bring the allies and provinces into the empire as the full citizens they should have been, in some cases, for centuries. Amorr couldn’t hope to continue suppressing the sort of rebellions that had swept across its periphery for the last two decades. But he had spent enough time around the Cynothii to be uncertain that men accustomed to kings, princes, and other monarchs would make the transition to senatorial rule as easily as his father and the other leading men of his party assumed.
He groaned and looked at the Valerian in a new light. Aside from his younger brother, who was yet to prove himself, his future brother-in-law might well be his most reliable ally in the years to come, which was an alarming thought for someone who had grown up thinking of House Valerius as a collection of mindless warmongers. At least Sextus Valerius looked the part of a Senator-to-be, and Aulan took some comfort in knowing his sister thought well of the man too.
For all of Severa’s near-embarrassment with the brave young gladiator, so fortuitously dead on the sands not long after that aborted rendezvous, she was normally a very sensible young woman. Even if the Valerian turned out to be an empty-headed ass, he would have a keen mind whispering in his ear, and, he hoped, guiding his public career in a manner advantageous to the various members of House Severus.
“Are you ready?” he asked Sextus Valerius. “You look good. But a little nervous. There’s no need to be nervous. You’re only one of thirteen or fourteen couples being announced. Once everyone realizes what two houses are connected to the betrothal, there will be so much commotion among the crowd that you could probably consummate the marriage right there on the table without anyone noticing.”
“You have a delicate way with words, Aulus Severus the Younger.”
“Oh, do call me that, brother. It makes me sound so philosophical.”
Sextus grinned absently, but his eyes were far away.
“What are you thinking about?” Aulan asked.
“My brother: Gaius. He should have been the one to marry Severa, not me. He’d be running for quastor in a few years. I’m only standing for tribune this winter because, well, because I’m supposed to.”
“I’m sorry about Fortex,” Aulan said, not entirely insincerely. “I once met a centurion who served with him. He said he was the bravest officer he’d ever seen.”
“Yes, well, we all know how bravery is rewarded in the legions. Fortunately, I’m in no danger of that. With any luck, at the conclusion of my brief military career, the very few people who recognize my name will say that I never actually shit myself despite the popular assumption.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Most of the foot shit themselves sooner or later. It’s not like anyone is excused from the ranks in the middle of a battle in order to visit the trenches. Of course, in the cavalry one can usually slide off one’s horse, do the dirty, and catch up again.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you make my future career sound even less appealing than I’d imagined. You’d make one hell of a recruiter, Aulus Severus. So tell me, does your sister actually like me?”
The Valerian glanced at him, and Aulan could see the vulnerability in the other’s dark brown eyes. It almost made him wince; Severa would have the man eating out of her hand and performing tricks in public within a month.
“Strangely, I do believe she does. You’re tall, you’re handsome, and you’re not a fat, fifty-year old heir to a minor house, which I happen to know is the fate she always feared would come to pass one day. She must have gotten offers for her hand from three-quarters of our father’s clients, and he’s got more than a thousand, you know. So, she’s got every reason to be glad you’re the one he chose for her. She’s a headstrong girl, she knows what she wants, and she’s probably the only one in Amorr besides my mother who can talk my father round. Believe me: If she didn’t like you, if she didn’t want to marry you, then she wouldn’t go through with the betrothal, no matter how it served the political interests of our fathers.”
That wasn’t strictly true, he realized even as the words came out of his mouth. Severa would go ahead with the betrothal in their father’s interests, if he told her to. She simply wouldn’t follow through with the marriage. But there was no sense in telling the Valerian that. The poor man was nervous enough already.
“As for the tribuneship, if you like, I’ll put in a word with Falconius Buteo for you. That’s assuming you’re willing to serve in a Severan legion, of course.”
“I don’t see why not.” Sextus shrugged. “My cousin is with the new Valerian legion, but I don’t think my father will be too keen on me serving under my uncle. Anyway, they’re still on campaign in goblin country, which sounds absolutely dreadful. Not much in the way of local flavor, if you know what I mean.”
“Depends on your tastes, I suppose.” Aulan laughed at the look of horror on Sextus’s face. “Not that mine run to breeds. But you do recall that you’re about to get yourself betrothed to my sister, right?”
“From what you tell me, I’ll be standing around shitting myself in some barbarian hellhole before I have the chance to make her any vows, let alone break them.”
“Look, I’m only saying that if you want a place in one of our legions, you’ll have one.” Aulan didn’t feel inclined to throw any stones, considering that he was half-contemplating returning to the legion by a circuitous route that would permit him to visit Lucarus’s fat-breasted young friend with the red hair again. “Fulgetra would be best. In addition to the fact that the only women in the vicinity won’t be goblins, I think I can ensure you that no one will chop your head off for excessive courage, or anything else.”
“No fear of that,” Sextus said as they heard the crowd cheer the previous couple. It was time. “Aulan, thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Thank Buteo. It will be his call in the end.”
“No, not for that. For this. For standing by me here today. My brother should have been here, but you did a damned good job of standing in for him. For a Severan.”
Aulan smiled and clapped the younger man on his maroon-cloaked shoulder. “It’s my honor. We’ll make a Severan of you yet, Sextus Valerius.
“Virtus et civitas,” the Valerian replied theatrically. “See, your sister already has me trained.”
“Good to see you lads are getting along,” announced Valerius Magnus as he joined them.
The prodigious belly of the ex-consul strained against the tightly-tailored wool of Magnus’s grey tunic. Like Sextus, he wore the Valerian colors, although his maroon cloak was embroidered with an elaborate pattern around the border that presumably had some significance that was lost on Aulan. He looked a little somber for what was nominally supposed to be a joyful occasion, but seemed to have otherwise recovered from the mourning period that had caused his withdrawal from public affairs.
“Now let’s move along,” Magnus said. “The archbishop has finally finished with the last of the equestrians, and there are only three other patrician couples being presented, so it’s time for you to take your places.”
They were close enough to hear the cheering that greeted the most recent betrothal, and Aulan wondered what sort of response would meet the news of the first Valerian-Severan alliance in two hundred and fifty years. No doubt word had leaked out to his father’s more important allies and clients, most of whom would be there out of courtesy, but he was sure it would be a real surprise to most of the people gathered in the large square to see the newly betrothed couples presented to the public on the rostra.
Their flame-lit path circled behind the crowd. It was an unearthly experience, thought Aulan. It felt almost religious, and he wasn’t even the one about to stand before the people at the side of his wife-to-b
e. How long would it be before he was the one making this silent, ritual march with his father and one of his brothers at his side? Next year? He hoped not, even though knew he would have little more say than Severa had had in the matter.
They reached the stone stairs and mounted them, with Magnus taking the lead. The archbishop was just raising his hand in blessing the last couple, a Falconian marrying a girl from one of the House’s lesser branches—a Falconius Licinus it appeared—as the three of them reached the platform and looked out upon the gathered crowd.
Aulan nearly whistled, the Comitium was as crowded as he’d ever seen it. There must have been five or six thousand people pressed together in the square. It looked almost like a legionary assembly. Presumably rumors that something unusual was in the works had attracted many who would be normally be celebrating the first night of the Hivernalia in a more conventional manner at one of the many parties and balls being thrown tonight. The Severan ball was traditionally held on the Tenth Night, though Aulan had always thought the Fifth Night would be more fitting, given its location.
Sextus was looking at something to their left, and Aulan grinned as he saw his father assist Severa in taking her place upon the rostra, followed by a slender young woman in a simple white gown who was serving as her honor maiden. He couldn’t see the expression on Severa’s face, as first she was looking out at the crowd, and then she turned to say something to his father.
Underneath her fox fur cape, her traditional betrothal gown was red, testifying that she was a woman capable of providing heirs, but even in the uncertain light of the torches he could see hers was the dark scarlet of House Severus rather than the lighter shade that was customarily used. Sextus didn’t seem to notice, but Magnus did, and he raised a hairy eyebrow eyebrow in Aulan’s direction.