The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  Reginald frowned. “And Sir Garston?”

  Lord Robin frowned. “Dead,” he said. “We found his body when we broke into his chambers.”

  “Suicide?” Reginald asked. He’d heard of men who’d killed their commanders when they didn’t want to waste their lives in a glorious last stand, but no one had tried to surrender even after the castle had been stormed. “What killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” Lord Robin said. “There’s no visible cause of death. Magic, perhaps. I was hoping Isabella could take a look at the body.”

  “See to it,” Reginald said. “But right now, show me to the audience chamber.”

  The interior of the castle was odd, he decided as he followed Lord Robin through a maze of corridors. It looked, very much, as though the designer couldn’t decide if he was building a mansion or a defendable castle. Some parts of the building were strikingly luxurious, comparable to King Romulus’s private hunting lodge; some parts were rough and crude, the muddy floor covered with hay. Perhaps the castle had simply been out of service for a long time. It would hardly be the first castle to have been neglected during the long centuries of peace.

  And the kings of the island wouldn’t want Racal’s Bay to be able to defend itself too effectively, he thought, cynically. This is the gateway to the rest of the world, after all.

  The audience chamber was definitely one of the more luxurious parts of the castle. A large throne dominated the room, resting on a carpeted floor. There were no other chairs in the chamber, as far as Reginald could tell. He wondered, wryly, if Sir Garston had forced the city fathers to stand or kneel in front of him. Sitting before a king was a gross breach of etiquette, but the rules weren’t so strict for lesser nobility.

  He tested the throne carefully, then sat down. “Bring the chief amongst the city fathers to me,” he ordered the guards. “And then assemble my council.”

  The throne was surprisingly comfortable. He found it slightly disconcerting. He’d sat on his father’s throne more than once, and that had been an unpleasant experience. His father had told him, when he’d asked, that a throne was never comfortable. A king who wasn’t constantly aware of the dangers threatening his position was a king on the verge of losing everything. His father clearly hadn’t seen this throne. Reginald wondered, as the guards escorted an elderly man into the audience chamber, if he should send the captured throne to his father. King Romulus would appreciate the joke.

  “Your Majesty,” the city father said, throwing himself to his knees. “I ...”

  “The correct form of address is Your Highness,” Reginald corrected, firmly. He wasn’t going to allow the city father to flatter him, not after he’d lost far too many men taking the wretched city. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

  “Wade, Your Highness,” the man said. “Wade, Son of ...”

  Reginald cut him off. “Your city is mine now,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Wade said. “We wanted to surrender, but Sir Garston insisted on fighting and ...”

  “So I am told,” Reginald said. It might very well be true. “If you cooperate with me, I will spare your lives and those of your fellows. If you refuse to cooperate with me, or sabotage my endeavours in any way, you will be executed and your families enslaved. There will be no further warnings. Do you understand?”

  Wade looked down. “Yes.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Reginald snapped. He refused to feel guilt over bullying an older man. City fathers were shifty fellows in his experience, more interested in milking their cities than defending them. They didn’t even have the decency to stay bribed. “Here are the rules.”

  He stared down at Wade, speaking clearly and precisely. “First, I want all weapons handed in to my forces at once. If there are trained soldiers, guardsmen or mercenaries, they are to report themselves to my people. Second, my troops will patrol the streets. Their orders are to be obeyed, without hesitation. Anyone who gives them trouble will regret it. Third, I will be using the docks to bring supplies into the Summer Isle from Andalusia. The city will be responsible for paying the dockyard workers and sailors for their services. Fourth, and finally, any attempt to interfere with my operations will be severely punished.”

  There was a long pause. “Once I am seated on the throne, we will reassess your city’s position in the kingdom. If you are deemed to have cooperated, you will be granted a charter akin to cities on the mainland. You will have a certain degree of internal autonomy, as long as you honour your obligations to your rightful king. If you are deemed to have not cooperated, I will install a Royal Governor and the council will be disbanded.”

  He saw the pain on Wade’s face and smiled, coldly. The city fathers would have no choice but to cooperate. A Royal Governor, even a fairly benevolent one, would be disastrous for the city’s long-term future. And yet, they had to know that their independence was about to be severely limited. Reginald could hardly allow them to put a stranglehold on trade between the Summer Isle and Andalusia. In the very long term, it might be worth establishing other trading cities along the coastline. It would certainly make it harder for Racal’s Bay to hamper the crown.

  “I understand,” Wade said. He took a breath. “But ... but what about the safety of my people?”

  “They will be safe, as long as they cooperate,” Reginald said. “They are my vassals now.”

  He ignored the stricken look on the elderly man’s face. His people had been freemen, technically speaking. They certainly hadn’t been serfs. Now ... now, they were Reginald’s possessions. They had no rights, beyond those he chose to grant them. He could make whatever use of them he wished. And if they weren’t useful, he would make them useful.

  “The guards will escort you out,” he said. “I expect you to communicate the rules to the rest of the city. And may the gods have mercy on you if you betray me.”

  He watched the guards half-dragging the old man out, then leaned back in his chair. It had been a good day, all things considered. They’d landed, fought their first battle ... and won. It had been more painful than he’d expected – any sane opponent would have surrendered once he’d taken stock of the forces facing him – but the victory would be good for his army. Their morale would go through the roof.

  But we can’t afford to stay here too long, he thought, as Gars and the rest of the council entered the room. The real battle is still to come.

  ***

  Big Richard looked displeased at being put on guard duty, Isabella noted, as she followed Lord Robin to the war room. He was shifting from side to side like a little boy who needed to relieve himself. The nasty part of her mind insisted that he was fretting over missing the chance to do a little looting, even though Prince Reginald had already told his men that they couldn’t loot. Or maybe he was just bored.

  “No one has entered this room,” he said, as he opened the door for them. “And there are no other ways into the room.”

  Unless there’s a secret passageway, Isabella thought. She’d never seen a castle that didn’t have a handful of secret passages and hidden chambers, all buried behind magic or simple misdirection. Her father’s mansion had been riddled with secret passages. And a hidden way out of the war room would be very useful indeed.

  She motioned for Lord Robin to stay behind her as she stepped into the room, recalling skills she’d hadn’t used since she’d been kicked out of the Watchtower. A single body – Garston, she assumed – was lying on the stone floor. The expression on his face suggested he’d died in agony. She reached out with her senses and frowned. There was no residual magic, as far as she could tell, but there was ... something, right at the edge of her awareness. Her frown deepened as she tried to narrow it down. The sensation reminded her of the abandoned village ...

  Stepping forward, she looked around the room. It was surprisingly simple; stone walls, broken only by arrow slits; a large map of the island hanging from one wall; a solid wooden table, covered with smaller map
s ... all illuminated by oil lanterns. The walls looked to be solid. There certainly didn’t seem to be any secret passageways. No magic lights, as far as she could tell ... no magic at all. And yet, the strange sensation was still there.

  “He might not have been alone,” she said, slowly. “Do we know who was with him?”

  “I don’t think we took many of his staff alive,” Lord Robin said. “They fought to the last.”

  Isabella rolled her eyes as she knelt down next to the corpse and started to cut its shirt free. Garston had been healthy enough, she noted; he wasn’t as muscular as Lord Robin, let alone Big Richard, but he wasn’t a weakling either. There was certainly no hint that his heart was on the verge of stopping ... she knew spells that could do that, easily, yet she couldn’t pick up even a trace of magic. She cast a handful of charms that were meant to detect poisons, but drew a blank. There was nothing. Garston hadn’t been poisoned, any more than he’d been knifed in the back. His heart had simply ... stopped.

  Big Richard snorted. “Should we leave you alone with the body?”

  Isabella bit down a very nasty reply. There were stories – foul stories – about sorceresses reanimating corpses for sexual pleasure, but none of the stories were remotely true. Anyone with the power – and the complete lack of morals – required to actually do it would have plenty of options that didn’t involve digging for a dead body. Assuming, of course, they could find a dead body in reasonable condition. They’d be lucky if they found anything more than a pile of ashes.

  “I can’t find any trace of what actually killed him,” she said, reluctantly. It looked like a heart attack, but none of her spells were turning up any of the warning signs. It seemed to have come out of nowhere. “And yet, he shouldn’t have died.”

  “Perhaps it was an odd form of suicide,” Lord Robin said. “He sentenced his men to death, didn’t he?”

  Isabella shrugged and rose. There were options, she supposed, but none of them quite made sense. A long-distance curse would have left traces ... unless there had been time for the magic to dispel. And yet, there hadn’t been time. She would have believed it was suicide if she’d been able to find something – anything – that pointed towards how it had actually been done.

  “We should speak to the survivors,” she said, slowly. Garston’s staff might be dead, but not everyone in the castle had been killed. “See if they know anything.”

  “They were cowering in the lower levels,” Big Richard growled. “I bet they know nothing.”

  Isabella shrugged. Servants ... aristocrats tended to dismiss servants as nothing more than tools, even though they were human beings. They were just part of the furniture. And yet, they were living beings ... thinking beings. It was quite possible that one of the servants had seen something that might point the finger at how Garston had died. Or committed suicide ...

  She reached out with her senses, again. The strange sensation was still there, nagging at her mind. An odd form of magic – Alden’s words echoed through her head – or a figment of her imagination? She was tired, more tired than she cared to admit. It was possible she was imagining it. No matter what she tried, she just couldn’t zero it down.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go talk to the staff.”

  “Stay on guard,” Lord Robin ordered Big Richard. “I’ll send someone to relieve you shortly.”

  “The body will have to be burnt,” Isabella said, as they walked down the stairs. “We could try cutting it open, but I doubt we’ll find anything useful.”

  Lord Robin nodded. “It’s spooky,” he said. “He doesn’t look like someone who was going to keel over at any moment.”

  Yeah, Isabella thought. Did someone kill him? And, if so, how?

  They entered the lower levels and looked around. A handful of prisoners were seated on the floor, their hands bound behind their backs. They were trying not to look at the guards, who were leering at the bound women. Isabella looked from face to face, trying to determine who would be the most helpful. The castle’s staff would probably not have been encouraged to wander. A cook would be little help, but ... her eyes focused on a terrified-looking maid and she smiled. Maybe, just maybe, they’d struck gold.

  “Come with me,” she ordered. “Now.”

  She helped the maid to her feet, even though the girl shrank away from her. Isabella would have smiled, if the situation hadn’t been so serious. The maid had clearly mistaken her for a man ... presumably, she thought that the two men had bad intentions. She might have been right too, if someone else had come to inspect the prisoners first. A maid wouldn’t be allowed to resist if one of her lords and masters decided he wanted to have some fun.

  Assholes, Isabella thought.

  The maid stared nervously at them as they escorted her into a private room. Isabella weighed up the situation, then freed the maid’s hands. It wasn’t much – she could have taken the maid with one hand behind her back – but it was something.

  “Tell me this,” she said, as the maid rubbed her wrists. “Did you attend upon Sir Garston?”

  The maid nodded, jumpily. “Yes, My Lord.”

  “My Lady,” Isabella corrected, absently. She smiled as the maid stared at her in complete disbelief. “Who was with him in the War Room?”

  “I ...”

  Isabella leaned forward. “Sir Garston is dead,” she said, gently. “And whatever you tell us will be very useful.”

  The maid looked down at the floor. Gently, very gently, Isabella wove a spell to encourage the poor girl to talk freely. It wasn’t fair, or right, but she didn’t have time for a long interrogation. And she didn’t want the girl subjected to torture, if Prince Reginald got it into his head that she was hiding something ...

  “The city fathers,” the maid said. She was shaking, very slightly. “And ... and a Red Monk.”

  “A Red Monk,” Isabella repeated. “What is a Red Monk?”

  “A ... a creepy person,” the maid said. She sounded as if she was caught between two compulsions, one forcing her to talk and the other insisting that she had to keep her mouth shut. “He ... he was strange. He ...”

  Isabella exchanged puzzled glances with Lord Robin as the maid’s voice faded away. A Red Monk? She knew what a monk was – a man who devoted himself to a single god, to the point where he refused to even talk to unbelievers – but a Red Monk? She’d never heard of anything like it.

  She spoke, very quietly. “A Red Monk ...?”

  “I don’t know,” Lord Robin said. “But I think we’d better find out.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Narrows were a desolate nightmare.

  Havant stood outside the tent and peered into the darkening twilight. There was little to be found but scrubland that had no effective use, beyond allowing a handful of sheep to wander and graze at will. The pickets hadn’t reported any sign of the enemy army, let alone reports of attacks within the Hereford or Goldenrod Lands. It was starting to look as though they’d wasted their time.

  Not that it was a complete waste of time, Havant told himself. We managed to impose our will on some of the king’s least trustworthy vassals.

  He smiled, humourlessly. They’d force-marched to the Narrows, but they’d still had time to visit a number of noblemen and reassure them that the crown had no desire to interfere with their age-old prerogatives, while making it clear that the crown did have the power to crush them if they misbehaved. The noblemen who lived in the gulf between the Hereford or Goldenrod Lands were trimmers, switching sides whenever it seemed that one or other of the earls had a decisive advantage. Now, with Rufus on the throne and the Hereford Lands linked to the Crown Lands, Hereford had a major advantage. The noblemen had had no choice but to bend the knee to their new king.

  As long as we stay in power, Havant thought. If we lose power, the knives will come out.

  His lips quirked at the thought. The northern noblemen were a treacherous lot. Backstabbing was practically their hobby. He ought to know. He was one of the
m, after all: born and raised in the north. Simply getting along with his siblings – and the rest of his extended family – was a minor miracle in its own right. Normally, younger brothers were killed or driven away before they had a chance to murder their elders and take their power for themselves. But working together meant greater rewards for all.

  Something rustled behind him. He turned to see Hark, his face half-hidden in his cloak. “Hark.”

  “Your Highness,” the Red Monk said. He bowed, slightly. “I come with tragic news.”

  Havant’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Prince Reginald has landed near Racal’s Bay,” Havant said, shortly. His voice was utterly toneless. “Sir Garston has fallen and the city has been put to fire and sword.”

  Havant stared. “When?”

  “Today,” Hark said.

  Havant shook his head in disbelief. There was no way a horseman – even one of the famed steeds of legend – could reach them in less than a couple of days. King Edwin’s attempts to set up a relay network – with fresh horses every twenty or so miles – had failed, simply because the noblemen liked knowing that it took time for the king to hear of their misdeeds, let alone do something about them. And yet, the Red Monks had strange powers. It never crossed his mind to doubt them.

  He forced himself to think. His most pessimistic estimates of how long it would take Prince Reginald to assemble, train and launch an invasion force had clearly been far too optimistic. In hindsight ... it was possible that the Cold King had merely been posturing, hoping to draw King Rufus’s army out of position. And if that had been the goal, he had succeeded admirably. Without the Red Monks, it would have taken days for a messenger to reach the army.

  “I have to speak to my brother,” he said, curtly. “What else do you know?”

  “My brethren have hidden,” Hark told him. “They have to remain out of sight.”

  Havant felt a flicker of bitter frustration. “Ask them to gather intelligence, if they can,” he said. “We need to know everything.”