‘Thank you,’ she said without giving the man a glance.
With a wave of his hand the coachman gave Dun-Cadal a timid salute, then returned to his carriage.
‘Your things?’ asked Dun-Cadal.
‘I didn’t pack them,’ she confessed.
Hesitantly, he approached the trunk. So she never had any intention of leaving Masalia. But what then had she brought? He lifted the hasp with a trembling hand.
‘I’ve always kept it with me,’ Mildrel said from behind him. ‘I knew that sooner or later you would put it back on. You’re a man of the West, a general of the Imperial Army. You are Dun-Cadal Daermon.’
He opened the trunk and the gleam of an old suit of polished armour made him squint. Or was it the tears brimming in his eyes? With his fingertips, he brushed the blade that lay upon the breast-plate. This sword had served in the Saltmarsh, in the Vershan, at Kapernevic . . .
‘There’s a horse waiting for you . . .’
He stood up slowly, feeling Mildrel leaning against his shoulder. He raised his hand to caress her cheek and then slid it along her nape, savouring the smoothness of her skin. And without a word they held each other in their arms, for one last embrace, one last time.
They knew they would never see one another again.
Azdeki would summon the councillors who were sworn to secrecy to the inner courtyard. He’d bring them to the gods’ chapel on the opposite side of the courtyard to the ballroom, the doors would be shut behind them, and the most loyal guards would be posted in front of the entrance. And then he would achieve his goal.
No, thought Laerte.
He would give a long speech about the history of the Sacred Book, about the decision of Aogustus Reyes to place it in the safekeeping of the Uster family, about the deliberate decline of the Order of Fangol and about the dangers of a corrupt Republic. Azdeki would condemn the councillors as too lax, too inclined towards change; he would evoke the loss of values, of the Order’s morality, of the teachings of the Holy Scriptures. And then he would show them the Liaber Dest, would brandish it like a standard so that all would follow his lead. He would allow the monks of Fangol to decide the fate of the former Bishop of Emeris, as proof of his faith and devotion. And a new regime, more just, more respectful, less permissive, would be born from his words. He would rely on the Liaber Dest to legitimise his seizure of power, translating the enigmatic verses and the strange engravings in his own fashion. He would give them whatever meaning he wanted, thanks to Aladzio’s work. It was what Azdeki was hoping for, that’s what he’d been preparing for all these years.
A thousand times no, Laerte swore to himself. The future of the Republic was not his primary concern. But the idea that his father’s assassin might also pervert his dream was unbearable. As he advanced towards the balconies that surrounded the inner courtyard he recalled his years of suffering, hiding behind the identity of Frog, denying what he had been. He was ready at last.
His hand on Eraëd’s pommel, he walked with a resolute step. The men at his side opened the way for him, quietly suppressing the guards. Not once did he unsheathe the Emperors’ sword. Soon an entire section of the palace would be under the control of de Page’s men. The very men that Azdeki had been pushed and manipulated into recruiting, thinking to fortify the place. How ironic . . .
‘Take your positions,’ Laerte ordered in a low voice.
Standing in a doorway, he designated each corner of the balconies and then walked out onto one of them, letting his gaze drift over the crowd conversing below. Men in livery were doing their best to provide service, filling glasses of wine at the barrel, bringing out platters of grilled meat, making their way as deftly as possible among the prestigious guests. All those present were councillors, dignitaries, wealthy men. This gathering was far from the spirit of Masque Night. More ordinary people were restricted to the great ballroom and under close guard.
The mercenaries concealed themselves behind the columns and, armed with their bows, knelt down as close as possible to the balustrades. Laerte looked at the barrels, piled up to form an odd-looking stairway. With a firm hand, he grasped the shoulder of a kneeling man before him.
‘The range?’
‘Perfect,’ the mercenary smiled as he set down an oil lamp.
‘Only on my signal,’ Laerte reminded him, as he sought to spot familiar figures among the crowd.
There were masks by the dozens and costumes made of silk and linen, all of them different, all of them unique. Colours danced, laughter rose, mouths opened to enjoy pieces of meat and joyfully try the poured wine. The courtyard resembled a fairground show of monstrous freaks.
And with in the throng, he spied an eagle’s head.
‘That’s Bernevin over there, and this one here is Daguaret,’ de Page whispered in Viola’s ear.
The duke was observing the slightest movements, the most subtle gestures, that might indicate any associations between the chatting councillors. It was second nature to him, first at the Imperial court and more recently in the Republican assembly, to pay close attention to such tiny details. From the glances and nods of heads he perceived, he could work out the links between those sending and receiving them. The opinions of each person, the political manoeuvres and the friendships they valued, all this information served him to envisage the web being woven by Azdeki.
On his arm, Viola was helping him analyse the comings-and-goings of the dignitaries as they walked up a great hallway lined with mirrors, towards an inner courtyard and a delicious aroma of grilled pork.
‘Daguaret defended your law on education,’ noted Viola.
‘Yes. But I bought his support,’ smiled de Page as he scrutinised the crowd advancing ahead of them. ‘That man has always put a price on ideas.’
‘What about El Chaval?’ wondered the young woman, looking away.
They passed in front of three men in yellow masks who were involved in a quiet discussion, glasses of wine in their hands. With his hair tied back in a ponytail, an affable air and a well-built body, El Chaval was nodding nervously.
‘He’s conceited and vulgar but there’s no denying his passion,’ said de Page. ‘Although he is a believer, he’s not in favour of a Republic under the thumb of the Order of Fangol. He has an honest position, even if it’s not one I share. They haven’t approached him.’
His father had told him; he had screamed it at him, propped up on his elbows, before his heart gave out.
‘You’ll have no place in this world, Gregory! You and your vices will be judged in the eyes of the gods, because no one can be freed from what was written. The Liaber Dest has been found again!’
The image of that face twisted in hatred, the lips quivering with rage, and the spittle at their corners, had haunted him ever since. It wasn’t simply a question of power that had prompted his father and the Azdekis to murder Oratio and co-opt his cherished Republic. It had always been their religious creed. Perhaps some had seen all this as progress – giving people a say in their lives – but that wasn’t what mattered to the conspirators. The only thing that counted for them was the word of the gods and that dwelled in the Sacred Book which the Reyes dynasty had taken such care to hide away.
‘To your right,’ murmured Viola.
De Page tilted his head slightly as a group of Fangolin monks passed by. With their hoods drawn over their heads and their hands joined before them, they were heading towards a door on the opposite side of the courtyard, flanked by four halberdiers.
On the threshold, councillors were gathering without exchanging a single word. As de Page had been expecting, Daguaret accompanied Rhunstag and Bernevin. Under the cover of the uproarious celebrations, no one noticed the group forming in front of Etienne Azdeki. The latter was standing on the porch looking out across the inner courtyard with a steely gaze, his hands behind his back. It was a calm, dignified pose. The monks joined his group.
Not one statesman present had escaped de Page’s attention, not a single one. He knew exact
ly who the enemies of the Republic were and any who survived this evening would not emerge unscathed. He would make certain none of them ever exercised power again.
‘This is the moment, isn’t it?’ whispered Viola, gripping his arm more tightly.
De Page nodded briefly. The courtyard was swarming with guests, many already drunk. If a tragedy occurred the ensuing panic would be total and, more importantly, impossible to control. De Page raised his head towards the balconies, where he could make out a familiar silhouette behind a column. Laerte was ready, the golden mask sparkling in the torchlight. Out of the corner of his eye the duke glimpsed Rogant between a buffet table and the doors leading to the ballroom. As for Aladzio . . . the inventor was nervously threading a path through the guests, face hidden behind a fox mask, his tricorne jammed on his head. Everything was coming together perfectly.
‘This evening, my friends, this evening!’ called a voice.
De Page stiffened.
With in the crowd the tricorne seemed to slip between the tall head-dresses and baroque masks. Laerte tracked it until Aladzio extricated himself from the mob. After exchanging a few words with Azdeki he entered the Palatio, but not without giving a brief glance over his shoulder. At Laerte’s feet the mercenary was dipping the point of an arrow towards the oil lamp.
‘This evening, my friends, this evening!’
He nocked the arrow and raised his eyes towards the man in the golden mask, waiting for him to drop his hand.
‘It’s a wonderful evening!’
But Laerte was still, as if paralysed. His heart seemed to stop beating as a man in the courtyard helped a young woman to climb onto the barrels.
‘For to the joy of this Republican night has been added the sublime happiness of my marriage. My wife—’
Her purple gown hugged her full curves, a star-like medallion hung on her bosom, and her carmine lips enhanced the whiteness of her smile. Behind her mask beaded with gold and silver, her almond eyes shone with tears which finally spilled, taking with them a little of the black kohl lining her eyes. She laughed as she took her place on top of the barrels as if upon a stage, one hand holding her husband’s.
‘Esyld Azdeki, show yourself to the world!’ shouted Balian Azdeki.
‘Sir?’ murmured a voice at Laerte’s feet.
Balian took off his wolf mask to look out at the crowd before him, spreading his arms. Intoxicated by alcohol, he was relishing this moment.
‘Thank you all for being here on this day. Long live the Republic!’
The applause boomed like massed war drums. Laerte felt his hand tremble.
‘Sir, I’m ready,’ hissed the mercenary.
Beneath his eagle’s head, Azdeki watch the scene from the porch with satisfaction. His son, so happy, was bowing to Esyld to the sound of cheers from the guests. No one was paying attention to the councillors passing through the doorway or to the monks who followed, disappearing with in the Palatio.
Upon the barrels, Esyld was thanking the crowd, bowing to the left, bowing to the right, laughter bursting from her lips, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment . . . or with joy. Laerte felt the weight of his mask, his breathing becoming laboured, his muscles rigid and his stomach tied in knots as he watched. Although she was walking across the barrels of wine, the ones stacked behind her were filled with powder. A single spark and . . .
De Page was darting worried glances towards Rogant, standing by the doors to the corridor, and towards the balconies where he could still see the motionless silhouette. The attack, Laerte, he thought. Give the signal! Go on!
Clinging to his arm, Viola tugged the duke forward slightly as if she were about to intervene. But what could she do? Soldiers had pushed back the Nâaga guarding the wine barrels and were flanking Balian and his wife. Viola had no means of drawing them away. The idea that everything they’d worked for might come to a halt right then and there crept in to his mind, leaving him despondent. He raised his eyes again to the balcony where Laerte waited, hoping to see a movement there.
‘We’re running out of time, sir,’ the mercenary said anxiously.
Laerte heard his voice as if from a great distance. His hand was still raised. His heart . . .
The councillors had all filed through the double doors.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ cried the crowd. ‘Long live the newlyweds! Bravo!’
The halberdiers posted themselves before the doors as Azdeki stepped back. One of the guards climbed the steps and closed one of the panels. Azdeki vanished and the soldier approached the second panel.
Still standing on the barrels, Esyld was looking at her husband with such tenderness, her hands folded over her chest.
Laerte’s hand remained raised.
The soldier pulled the second door panel shut.
‘Sir!’
‘It goes much further than that.’
With his right hand, Laerte gripped Eraëd. Everything seemed confusing to him. And in the din of clapping hands, he heard a hammering noise, like drumming. Muffled at first . . . then more and more distinct, until he could finally identify it as the clattering of hooves on marble. Even in the thunder of applause, a few masks had turned towards the hall of mirrors, intrigued by the ringing of iron on stone. The staccato rhythm continued to rise in volume, accompanied by the barking of orders in its wake. At the opposite side of the courtyard, the double doors were shut. Even if Laerte unleashed the attack now the conspirators, alerted by the sound of fighting, would have plenty of time to flee before he could find them in the Palatio’s maze of hallways.
‘It’s about the path you chose to take.’
Most of the crowd was still applauding the bride and groom. Esyld looked radiant. Balian Azdeki approached the barrels, catching hold of his lady love’s hand to bring it to his lips. The sound of hooves drew closer, a continuous drum roll now, stronger, more menacing. And with it, the bawling of angry orders.
‘And what if you come across Esyld this evening? Will you give in to your anger?’
Hooves against marble, screaming . . . and a voice, stern and hoarse, filled the courtyard like a clap of thunder.
‘Azdeki!’
14
THE PATH OF ANGER
Dun-Cadal had forced Laerte to kneel before him, a firm hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. The pain of the impact stabbed Laerte’s knees but, gritting his teeth, he did not cry out. He knew he was being observed, judged, and not for anything in the world would he betray any sign of weakness. His face must not reveal anything. His heart was pounding and sweat beaded at his temples. He would hold out. The knights were assembled in a semi-circle about him, wearing polished armour that gleamed in the morning sunshine. Behind them stood the tall, pure-white statues of the divinities, their expressionless gazes directed down at the altar.
Across the stained-glass windows, colourful representations of knights fought monsters and demons, rouargs and dragons, protecting frightened families with drawn swords.
‘For faults committed,’ said Dun-Cadal.
He slapped Laerte so hard that the young man felt his neck crack.
‘And so that you shall commit no more, Frog.’
His other cheek burned beneath another powerful blow, so hard his head seemed ready to detach itself from the rest of his body. He could taste blood where his teeth had bitten down on his lip. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He inhaled deeply, his jaws tightly clenched.
‘Repeat after me,’ ordered Dun-Cadal. ‘I am the sword, I am the shield.’
‘I am the sword,’ mumbled Laerte.
‘Louder!’
‘I am the sword!’ he began again, raising his eyes towards his mentor. ‘I am the shield.’
‘I am he who does not weaken,’ Dun-Cadal continued, beneath the stern gazes of his brothers-in-arms.
‘I am he who does not weaken.’
‘I am the sword against the mighty. The shield for the meek. My word is gold. I shall not renege on it. I am he who marches into combat. My path
is that of the just. I shall not falter. I am he who marches into combat.’
Laerte repeated the words aloud while Dun-Cadal drew his sword and placed it briskly upon his apprentice’s shoulder.
‘I am the sword and the shield, that is my sole path. Nothing shall ever restrain my arm.’
‘. . . nothing shall ever restrain my arm,’ Laerte finished in one breath.
He could not stop himself from closing his eyelids when Dun-Cadal lifted the sword before bringing the flat of the blade smashing down on his right shoulder. Laerte gritted his teeth.
‘I free you from who you once were. He no longer matters.’
He sensed the sword passing over his head. Then the pain from the blow to his left shoulder made him open his eyes.
‘Repeat after me,’ his mentor demanded again. ‘I hereby pledge my oath. . .’
‘I hereby pledge my oath. . .
‘To never take the path of anger, to always serve justice with honour and righteousness. To be a knight, among knights, and in good faith.’
‘. . . and in good faith,’ concluded Laerte, with a lump in his throat. In the shadows and light of the chapel, Dun-Cadal’s face bent down towards his, grave and proud.
‘I name thee: Sir Frog.’
‘I name thee: Sir . . .’
‘Azdeki! You scum!’
The horse reared as it burst into the courtyard, its hide bristling with spears and dripping rivers of blood. Men and women, terrorised, scattered screaming when the knight was thrown into the air and fell heavily to the ground, wheezing mightily. His mount’s hooves fell back to the ground. It was, snorting frantically, and then convulsed and collapsed onto its flank, tongue hanging from its open mouth. Behind it soldiers came running, caught short by the sudden charge. They had seen the rider come tearing through the crowd in the square outside and leap the palace steps, sweeping the air with his sword. Some of them had tried to stand in his way, but the panicked horse had reared and kicked repeatedly. The spears had only maddened it further. And its rider had led it to its death, here in the courtyard.
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