Knight's Shadow (22 page)

‘This is getting boring,’ Dariana said idly. ‘You promised me mayhem and fighting.’

I kept my eyes on the Knights. ‘Odds?’ I whispered to Kest.

When he didn’t reply I looked at him. A red haze surrounded him – for a moment I hoped it was just a trick of the light caused by the brazier hanging by the door, but no, it really was coming from his skin. He turned to me and grinned. His expression was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. ‘To mayhem and fighting,’ he said, and launched himself across the room towards the men, his sword beginning a lazy circle over his head as he prepared to strike.

‘Hells! Brasti, now!’ I said, but I needn’t have bothered. One of the crossbowman already had the shaft of an arrow jutting from his chest, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Brasti had already nocked another arrow. The rest of us raced across the room to join Kest: five against seventeen, and most of them in armour. But we had Brasti with his bow and a quiver full of arrows and the Saint of Swords burning with a fire that sang out for blood.

To mayhem and fighting
, I thought.

Chapter Nineteen

The Bardatti

The five of us fought as a unit with deadly efficiency – some of that was necessity; some a great deal of luck. I imagine to someone watching it must have looked like chaos incarnate, with the steel blade of Kest’s sword reflecting the red glow of his skin even as it drowned the glow in the deeper red blood of his opponents. And Brasti was just as deadly, the string of his bow singing in the air as every one of his arrows struck its intended target. When I caught a look at his face, there was just as much anger and madness as on Kest’s, which reminded me that for all his good humour, Brasti hated Knights above all things.

Dariana fought like a hummingbird, stealing thrusts at her opponents and then just as quickly flitting outside of their reach.

But it was Valiana who scared me most. Her skills really had improved, and she was holding her own against men with years of soldiering behind them. And yet at least part of why she was so effective was because she ran into the fight without any hesitation at all. I swear I saw her running straight into an opponent’s blade and he pulled it back simply out of reflex. When it was all done, she had a grim look of satisfaction on her face.

‘Leave her be,’ Dariana said quietly. ‘You won’t make it better, so at least don’t make it worse.’

‘She fights as if she wants to be killed,’ I muttered.

‘Of course. She fights like you.’

‘What? Are you mad? I don’t—’

But before I could finish she had walked away from me as if I didn’t exist. I looked around the room to make sure none of the dead or dying were going to get up for another try. A creaking noise drew my eyes to the door between the common room and the rest of the inn in time to see it open just a hair.

‘Saints!’ Tyne said. Then he caught my expression and slammed the door shut again.

‘Just for that, we’re not paying for our rooms,’ Brasti shouted. He turned to me. ‘And don’t you start up about Greatcoats not stealing. If he wanted his money all he had to do was not lock us in with seventeen soldiers determined to see us dead.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. I checked around the room to see if any patrons were still hiding or had been injured, but it looked like they’d all got away. Hopefully they were safe in their homes now. Then I realised someone else was also gone. ‘Bloody Saint Olaria-who-carries-the-clouds,’ I said.

‘What is it?’ Kest asked mildly. He was cleaning the blood off his blade and looked completely normal again, as calm as still water.

‘The troubadours – I wanted to talk to them.’

‘They snuck out just as things were coming to a close,’ Brasti said. ‘I think they were heading towards the barn. Why is it so many inns in Tristia have barns?’

‘Most used to be family farms,’ Kest said. ‘I read in the third Census from King Ugrid that—’

‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to that storyteller.’

The others followed me out into the night.

‘What’s the problem?’ Brasti asked as we walked across the cobblestone courtyard. ‘I didn’t even have a chance to grab a jug of that ale. You’re not still mad about him getting your name wrong, are you?’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ I said, ‘but just before things got messy he showed that damned coin again. I want to know where he got it.’ Stealing a juryman’s coin used to be a serious offence, back in the days when anyone cared what the Greatcoats thought. It represented a promise to uphold the verdict; it was a badge of honour – but most of all, it was a payment to the family of the man or woman who risked losing their lives and leaving their loved ones without means. A gold coin like that could keep a family fed for a year and I didn’t like the idea that it had been taken from someone a Greatcoat had given it to.

As we approached the entrance to the barn a voice called out and I looked up to see the storyteller, bow and arrow in hand, perched in the window of the second floor. The arrow was aimed at me.

‘If you’ve come looking for trouble, I warn you, I’m as skilled an archer as your man there. I can take out all five of you before the first one’s blood begins to seep through his clothing. You’ll face your Gods with your entrails hanging out like snakes fleeing from a burning ship.’

‘Nice imagery,’ Brasti said.

‘It’s fine, I suppose,’ Kest replied, ‘but it’s not actually that impressive to kill someone with a bow before they have a chance to run into the barn and up the stairs, when you think about it.’

‘It’s not the physics of the thing that matters, it’s the lyrical quality of the phrase. He’s a
troubadour
, remember? He’s supposed to be
poetic
.’

‘Are you quite done?’ the troubadour asked.

‘I think you should come down and talk,’ I said.

‘Give me three reasons,’ the bard replied, ‘for if I dislike the first two, that will give you one last chance at life.’

‘See?’ Brasti said. ‘He’s a
poet
.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘In the first place, it looks as if that crack on the front of your bow is about to give way. So I imagine you found it hanging on a wall in there which means it’s been exposed to cold and rain for Saints know how long. Also, the way you’re holding it leads me to believe that the only way you could hit the side of a barn right now would be if you dropped the arrow.’

‘Oh, that was clever,’ Brasti said approvingly.

‘Perhaps Falcio could be a poet too,’ Kest suggested.

‘I’ll wager my bow will hold just long enough to drive an arrow through your chest,’ the troubadour said.

‘Probably not,’ I said, ‘for even if you did manage to fire that arrow, and if the bow didn’t break, and if the wind picked up and compensated for your poor aim, you’d still find our coats are very difficult to pierce, even with an arrow.’

‘You’d need a bigger bow,’ Brasti called up. ‘A longbow might do it. Needs to be six feet long, ideally. Go for yew, if they have it.’

I gave Brasti a look.

‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t want to discourage anyone from learning archery.’

‘I’m unconvinced,’ the troubadour said. ‘Any man can get a coat made to look like a Greatcoat’s if he has money.’

‘That seems like a poor use of funds,’ Kest said, ‘since it would be more than likely to get the man in question killed.’

‘I never said you were smart. Give me your third reason or go away and save your lives.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘My third reason is that my name is Falcio val Mond. That’s right,
Fal-key-oh
. Not Fal-
si
-o. And val means “child of” in the old tongue of Pertine, whereas dal isn’t a word at all. I won’t bother with the rest, except to say that I’m the First Cantor of the Greatcoats, you’re holding a juryman’s coin and unless you give me a very good reason for it, I’m going to come up there and beat you half to death with that stick you’re holding and then I’m going to shove it up your arse. How’s that for a reason?’ I drew my rapier. ‘And while you’re thinking on that, tell your friend hiding in the bushes by the barn that if she wants to keep her fingers for playing the guitar then she’d better drop the dagger she’s holding.’

The troubadour looked aghast. ‘I . . . find your argument compelling. Wait . . . are you really the Falsio from the stories?’

‘That’s it,’ I said heading for the barn. ‘I’m going to kill him.’

Brasti put a hand on my arm. ‘Yes, he is. He’s the Great Falsio Bal Jond. So just come down here, tell us where you got that coin and we can all go back to our barmaids . . . I mean, beds.’

The woman came out from the bushes, her dagger held in front of her. ‘I was making water,’ she said in a tone that sounded as if she was challenging me to disagree with her.

A minute later the storyteller was down in the courtyard with us, bow still in hand and a look on his face that was somewhere between sheepish and terrified. ‘It’s really you?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘I thought . . . It’s just you sounded taller in the story.’

‘So much for Bardatti,’ Kest said.

‘It’s really more of an artistic statement,’ the man said, but I’d noticed the woman’s eyes had narrowed.

‘See?’ Brasti said. ‘I told you he was a poet.’

‘What’s your name, storyteller?’ I asked.

‘Colwyn,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And this lovely dear is Lady Nehra.’

‘Just “Nehra”,’ she corrected.

I shook hands with both of them despite my reservations. I was curious about the relationship between the two but kept to my original purpose. ‘Well, Colwyn, let’s see it.’

‘What?’

‘The coin, damn it.’

‘Ah.’ He reached into the pocket of his trousers and handed it to me. ‘You can keep it if you like. For the trouble, I mean.’

‘You’d give away a gold Greatcoat’s coin?’ Kest asked, for once actually looking surprised.

‘Nah, it’s a copper sparrow. From Hervor. If you leave it in yellowberry juice overnight it turns gold-coloured. You just need to scratch it up a bit first. See? Looks almost like a crown with a sword through it if you don’t look too close.’

The troubadour reached into his pockets again. ‘Look, I’ll give one to each of you if you like. I can make ten of these at a time; I just need to get hold of more copper sparrows.’

‘Why would you need more than one?’ Kest asked.

Colwyn held up the coin and smiled. ‘The women, see? You take one to bed and promise to come back for her. Tell her to hang onto your juryman coin. Makes them feel special.’

Brasti took one of the coins, looked at it and held it up to Kest and me. ‘Do you realise what I could do with a few of these?’ He turned back to the troubadour and hugged him. ‘You really are a true Bardatti.’

‘What about the story? About me?’ I asked. ‘Why did you change it?’

‘Oh, that. Well, sorry if I offended you – it’s just, well, the old one was heroic, but this one is funny, and more laughter means more coins. Say, could you let me know which parts I got wrong? It’s hard to get the facts straight and the truth always sounds more, you know . . .’

‘True?’ Kest asked.

‘Right.’

‘But how did you hear the story?’ I asked. ‘I mean the original one – in Rijou. If you weren’t there, how did you hear about it?’

‘The story of Falsio at the Rock?’

‘Falcio,’ I said. ‘Fal–
key
–oh.’

‘Right, sorry. Well, I mean it’s been going around for weeks now. We don’t often get a good Greatcoat tale any more. Some of these village hicks, you know, they still like those kinds of stories, just have to be careful not to tell it around the ears of the wrong people. Knights and Duke’s men and such.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You should be right proud! What you did there, well, whatever you
really
did. The story’s travelling faster than a thief on a good horse. You’ll be famous soon!’

‘Well,
Falsio
will be, anyway,’ Brasti said, grinning.

‘What’s the point of the story?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean? It’s just a good story is all,’ Colwyn said.

‘Yes, but what’s the . . .? You know, what do people take away from it?’

‘Ah, depends on the crowd, I suppose. But for most, I reckon they figure you’re going to come along and fight for justice and, you know, kill off all the evil Dukes and such.’

‘Kill off the Dukes?’

‘Well, you did kill the Duke of Rijou, didn’t you? Cut his head off with that broadsword of yours.’

‘Rapier,’ Kest corrected. ‘Falcio fights with rapiers.’

The troubadour looked confused. ‘Can’t see how you could cut off a man’s head with a rapier. It’s not heavy enough, is it?’

I grabbed the man by the shoulders. ‘You’re telling me that you’re running around the countryside telling people I assassinated Jillard, Duke of Rijou?’

‘Not just me – I mean, all the troubadours are telling that story these days. Not in the cities, of course, but out here in the country. Makes the hicks feel good.’

‘But Jillard
isn’t dead
!’ I said.

‘Who cares? When’s the last time you imagine the Duke of Rijou went for a walk through a village in the middle of Aramor? Hells, Duke Isault probably hasn’t been here in years and it’s in his duchy. I’ve killed off lots of Lords and Dukes. I even killed off the King himself a time or two back in the day. People like a good story about nobles being murdered and assassinated and whatnot.’

‘The nobles don’t,’ I said.

‘Don’t mind Falsio,’ Brasti said, giving me a sideways grin. ‘Let’s go find a jug of that excellent ale and you can tell me more about these women who love Greatcoat coins.’

Colwyn grinned back at him, and for a brief moment I felt as if I’d just witnessed two long-lost brothers reunited. The two of them started walking back towards the inn.

‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Kest said, and followed a few feet behind them.

Dariana yawned. ‘Hells. Three days without rest, but I don’t suppose we can stay at the inn tonight. Come on, pretty bird,’ she said to Valiana. ‘We’d best grab our things and get the horses ready.’

The two headed back into the inn, leaving me alone with the woman called Nehra.

‘You’re a fool, Falcio val Mond. You know that?’

‘I do know that,’ I said, ‘but why now in particular? Were we supposed to let those men kill us?’

‘Not that,’ she said, ‘Carefal. Doing Isault’s dirty work – just exactly how stupid are you?’

‘You know, I’m starting to understand why Colwyn does the talking in your performances.’

‘Colwyn’s also a fool,’ she said dismissively. ‘But unlike you, he’s harmless. He’s not off setting off civil wars.’

‘I was trying to
stop
one.’

She snorted. ‘Then you—’

‘Stop calling me a fool and tell me what you came to say. Saints! I thought the Bardatti were supposed to tell stories, not just hurl insults.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘And a second time you show your ignorance. Come, give us a third, for the Gods love things in threes.’

‘Fine. I see one of the Bardatti going around the countryside with a barely competent troubadour telling stories and, I’m starting to think, following me around and spying on me.’