Knight's Shadow (16 page)

I had no small amount of admiration for Shuran, and in another life, who knows, perhaps we would have been friends. But at that moment the only thing running through my mind was,
Saints, how I hate Knights
. ‘So you expect us to just waltz into the palace and hope it’s not a trap? If Isault’s planning on selling us out to Trin, what’s to stop him from capturing us or killing us to seal the deal?’

‘Duke Isault would never do that,’ Shuran said firmly. ‘If he changes his mind and decides to back Duchess Trin instead of Princess Aline he’ll tell you to your face and send you on your way. He won’t order me to arrest you, not unless you attack him first.’

I looked around at Shuran’s men. There were five of us and ten of them, so decent odds. We could take them if we had to – assuming, of course, that Kest awakened from his current slumber.

‘I’ll swear this much,’ Shuran said. ‘If you come to the palace, I will personally guarantee your safety.’

‘And what if Isault orders you to attack us? You’ll – what? Refuse?’

The question was pretty obvious to me, and yet Shuran was clearly troubled by it. Eventually he said, ‘Then I’ll renounce my Knighthood and do what I must to ensure my promise to you is upheld.’

‘What about your precious honour then?’ I asked.

He put his foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse. ‘If the Duke tells me to attack those he’s sworn to treat with fairly, then my honour won’t be worth a black penny any more.’

He kicked his horse and left me standing in the inn’s small courtyard feeling somehow both betrayed and yet ignoble. That was quite a feat.

Chapter Fourteen

The Betrayal

A few hours later found the five of us back on the road, riding alongside Shuran’s Knights in deathly silence. We’d been halfway through constructing a litter for Kest – all Greatcoats learned a variety of useful knots for such eventualities – when he’d awakened from his fever. The red glow was completely gone now, but it had been replaced with a grey pallor; it might have simply been exhaustion, but I couldn’t help but worry it might be something more deadly. He sat astride his horse – you couldn’t even call it riding – and stared at the ground passing below like a hung-over man reflecting on the wages lost in a drunken game of dice.

Sometimes I slowed my own mount so that Kest could catch up, each time hoping he would talk to me, help me understand what was happening to him. But each time he just held up a hand and muttered, ‘Not yet.’

And so we continued on our way.

A steady rain began to fall and the roads, ill-maintained since the King’s death, became slick and dangerous, forcing us to slow even more for we could not risk the horses.

The drudgery of our pace affected us in different ways. I was thankful for the watchful eye Dariana was keeping on the Knights riding ahead of us, though none of them had yet decided to disobey Shuran’s order. Brasti had sunk back into a black mood, still brooding on what he saw as a betrayal of the villagers in Carefal.

Only Valiana saw fit to speak to me. ‘We did the right thing, you know.’ She pulled her horse up next to mine. ‘In the village, I mean.’

‘“The law is the law”,’ I said, though the words sounded more like a taunt than the comfort they were supposed to be.

She reached out and rested a hand on my arm. ‘People will only believe in the laws if they see them enforced.’

‘We just enforced the law on a group of brave women and men who wanted nothing more than fairer treatment from their Duke.’

‘That’s just the point,’ she said. ‘The Dukes were wrong, but so were the villagers. They acted as they did because they saw no other choice. That’s what’s wrong with this country, Falcio. People see no other choice than to take as much power as they can and use it for themselves.’

‘Says the girl who not so long ago planned to make herself Queen.’

I instantly regretted my words; she had done as she’d been raised to do and none of this was her fault. I was about to apologise when I realised she wasn’t as hurt as I’d expected.

‘If I had been made Queen, I would have found a way to bring the Law back to Tristia – that’s what the monarch is supposed to do. It’s what King Paelis did, isn’t it?’

‘Until the Dukes had him killed, yes.’

‘And what has it brought them? The country is poorer now, the roads more dangerous. The Dukes are no richer than they were before, but now what part of their fortune they don’t lose to brigands they spend on spies to keep watch on each other and more Knights to fill out their armies, and all the while paying their men less and less.’

‘Knights don’t get paid, remember? They serve for honour.’

Valiana ignored my sarcasm. ‘Look at Shuran’s men, then think back to those we saw back at the palace. Did you notice that several of them were greybeards, well past their prime? Knights used to be given gifts of land after their years of service so they could retire and live in peace and prosperity. Isault’s not doing that, is he? And neither are any of the other Dukes, not now. They all keep adding more Knights to their rosters, but without rewarding the ones they have.’

I hadn’t considered that before now, but she was right. Despite all the stories of Knights and their honour and brave deeds, to us Greatcoats, Knights were nothing more than hired thugs with pretensions to nobility. It had never occurred to me to think of them as men who had hopes and dreams of a life outside the confines of their armour. I supposed it was probably easier not to think of them at all, given how often I’d had to fight them. I shook my head to clear the thought from my mind. ‘If you’re asking me to feel any sympathy for the Ducal Knights—’

‘You should have sympathy for anyone who suffers,’ she countered. ‘In Rijou you told me that nothing is worse than sitting back while evil prospers. Shouldn’t you be able to show some pity for these men, too?’

I thought about Aline, and how impossible it was going to be to make her Queen, and about Trin, who was out there somewhere merrily creating chaos in the world. I thought about the rest of the King’s original hundred and forty-four Greatcoats who were scattered to the winds, alone or dead, or worse, turning to banditry to survive. I thought about Kest, who was even now suffering under this sainthood that had turned out to be a huge curse. And I thought about the fact that when I laid my head down on my pillow tonight, I had no idea if I would ever move again.

Then I looked at the ten Ducal Knights of Aramor in front of us. Each of them would happily turn on us right then and there and slit our throats for no other reason than we were Greatcoats, were it not for the command of one man.

‘Fuck the Knights,’ I said.

*

Three more days and enough rain to convince me that every God in Tristia had taken this opportunity to piss on my head brought us back to the courtyard of Duke Isault’s palace. We were soaked to the bone as we waited in the never-ending downpour for one of the watchmen to seek out Sir Shuran.

‘You’ve arrived safely,’ the big Knight said, striding towards us from the wide arched doors to the palace. His freshly polished armour gleamed, in studied contrast to our sodden, grimy coats. ‘I understand you made it back without incident.’

I noted that Shuran had been followed by the usual coterie of heavily armed men who were now standing around him with their weapons drawn. Kest stepped forward, his hands held out to show that he wasn’t holding a weapon. ‘Sir Shuran, I behaved . . . inappropriately. The actions were mine and no one else knew I would—’

‘What? Call me a coward and a traitor? Challenge me to a duel for no particular reason and then do a remarkably good job of trying to put a sword through my heart?’ He tapped a finger on the indentation in his chest plate. He had done an amazing job of polishing his armour to a mirror-shine, but he hadn’t bothered to beat out the dent. ‘You’ve given my enemies an awfully precise target, Saint of Swords.’

Kest nodded. ‘I will accept any punishment you deem necessary, so long as my friends—’

‘Enough,’ Shuran said. ‘I might be fascinated by the Saints but I’ve got a low tolerance for martyrs. You were beset by the Saint’s Fever at the time – and besides, technically I did accept your challenge.’

‘Still . . . I would make restitution.’

Shuran grinned. ‘Good. Let the price be that some day you’ll give me a fair bout when I’m not busy trying to stay alive to do the Duke’s business and you aren’t in the middle of a bloody red rage.’

Kest nodded, and the matter seemed done with, for the moment at least.

Shuran turned to me. ‘I’ll have someone take you to your rooms. The Duke knows what transpired in Carefal. I’m sure he’ll want to see you in the morning.’

The thought of spending the night here made me uneasy. I had no doubt that even now Shuran’s Knights were telling their fellows the story of how close the Greatcoats had come to killing their leader. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I need to finalise things tonight. We won’t be staying at the palace.’

‘Tonight isn’t a good time,’ Shuran said. ‘The Duke is busy this evening.’

Lightning flashed ever so briefly to the north of us and a moment later the boom of thunder reached my ears. Water was dripping from my hair into my eyes and all I could think of was a fat, arrogant Duke sitting on his throne, enjoying whatever amusements pleased him. I wasn’t looking for trouble, but I’d had just about enough of being under Isault’s thumb. ‘I don’t care. Tell him he’s going to see us tonight.’

Shuran’s voice grew quiet, as if he didn’t want his men to hear. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Falcio. The Duke decides when he sees you, not the other way around.’

‘Then tell him that one way or another, with or without his support, Aline is going to be Queen, and she’s going to be making all kinds of decisions about taxes and laws and the boundaries between duchies. Tell him I have saved her life – several times – and there’s a very good chance I may use that fact to punish those people who’ve irritated me over the years.’

Shuran looked at me as if he were trying to see whether or not I was serious. After a moment he said, ‘All right, Falcio. I’ll tell him. Whatever happens after that is on your head.’

*

Half an hour later I was back in the Ducal throne room, this time alone – at Duke Isault’s insistence. I suppose he wanted to make me nervous. ‘Your Grace,’ I said, tilting my head so the water dripped onto his floor.

‘Shit-eater,’ he replied, ‘there’s a story going around that you – Beshard, what was it Shuran was saying earlier? He said the shit-eater here—’

‘Demanded to see you, your Grace.’

‘That’s right,’ Isault said, ‘you
demanded
to see me. But there was something else, too. What was that again, Beshard? What was that other thing the shit-eater did?’

‘He threatened you, your Grace?’ Beshard offered.

Isault clapped his hands together. ‘That’s right: the Greatcoat
threatened
me. Now, Shuran’s known to be a big fat liar, right, Beshard?’

‘No, your Grace, I’ve never heard that said of Sir Shuran, begging your pardon.’

‘No? Oh, so then it’s true, is it, Falcio val Mond?’

‘I suppose my words could fairly be interpreted as a threat,’ I agreed.

Isault smiled and took a long drink from the goblet sitting precariously on the arm of his throne. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his green silk robe. ‘Excellent. I’ve been having accommodations prepared for you. In my dungeon. Lovely place – mind you, you’ve had a lot more experience at being chained up and tortured than I have so I’ll be keen to get your opinion of it. But I was afraid I’d got my information wrong and my admittedly hasty preparations might be in vain.’

I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, not wanting the Duke to see them shaking. It wasn’t that long since I’d spent several days being tortured in the dungeons of Rijou, and unless I tried very hard, I could still feel the manacles that had held my wrists, and the pain in my shoulder sockets from hanging suspended by my arms for days on end. I had barely survived the experience once, and the thought of repeating it terrified me. ‘I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,’ I said casually.

‘Oh, I assure you, it’s no trouble at all.’

‘Still, I think there’s a more expeditious solution, your Grace.’

‘Really? Well, we in Aramor are all in favour of expeditious solutions. What’s yours?’

‘Give me the decree you promised swearing support to Aline and then I’ll be on my way and we need never see each other again.’

I’d expected an insult or some kind of threat; instead, the Duke just scratched his beard. ‘And you think you’ve earned that, do you?’

‘I did what you asked,’ I said. ‘I put down the rebellion.’

‘I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?’ The Duke gave a little giggle and looked longingly at his empty goblet of wine. Evidently it hadn’t been his first that evening. ‘Wish I’d been there to see it: the great Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the King’s Greatcoats. The Hero of Rijou. You did just exactly what I wanted you to do.’

The tone of his voice softened. He was no longer mocking; now he sounded . . . disappointed?

‘You take orders surprisingly well, Falcio,’ the Duke went on. Then he shouted across the room, ‘He’d make a good Beshard, wouldn’t he, Beshard?’

‘If your Grace says so,’ the chamberlain replied.

‘Yes, I do.’ Isault turned his attention back to me. ‘Maybe you secretly want to bugger me, just like old Beshard does.’ He held up a hand as if to stop any expostulation I might make. ‘Or no, not like Beshard. Maybe you just want so badly to be loyal to your dead King that you’ll do anything just to prove yourself. Maybe we should make you a Knight, eh? Like Shuran? Would you like to be a Knight, shit-eater? No offence, you understand. Just curious.’

‘I’d rather marry one of your torturers and spend the honeymoon in the darkest cell in your dungeon than become one of your Ducal Knights,’ I said. ‘No offence.’

Isault laughed then, not at what I’d said, but at something else: a private joke between him and himself. Both looked inordinately pleased. ‘Do you want to hear something funny?’ he asked.

‘I’d—’

‘I often think about your dead King Paelis.’

‘He was your King too,’ I said reflexively.

Isault waved his fingers in the air. ‘Details. Just like a magistrate to focus on the details and miss the point.’

Beshard, responding to a cue I hadn’t noticed, walked up to the throne carrying a silver jug. He refilled Isault’s goblet before bowing and turning to begin the trek back to his allotted position at the other end of the long room. The Duke drained his goblet almost immediately and tapped it with one finger and a moment later Beshard once again started the journey from the back of the room.

‘Perhaps it would be more efficient if Beshard and the wine stayed here,’ I suggested.

‘No, no; this is my last one. Where was I? Oh yes, I think about King Paelis sometimes. In fact, occasionally I fancy him being right here in front of me. We talk about things, he and I. Do you ever imagine yourself talking to the King?’

‘I try to limit the number of conversations I have with the dead, your Grace.’

‘Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s an entirely sensible activity. I talk to King Paelis about the Law and the country; about securing borders and negotiating agreements with my fellow Dukes.’

‘Does the King talk back?’

‘No – that’s the best part, in fact. In life all he did was talk, but in death, he’s a mercifully good listener. I ask him questions sometimes, but of course he doesn’t answer, just stands there with that stupid lopsided smirk of his. I hated that expression when he was alive. Made me want to slap him. But now, strangely enough, it just makes me think and think some more, and wouldn’t you know it? I end up coming up with the answer all by myself. A much better King in death than in life, is our Paelis. I could do with only ever having dead monarchs.’