Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (26 page)

I briefly considered bashing his head in with my stick and smiled. ‘Your Grace treads in dangerous waters.’

Jillard let his hands drop, unconcerned. ‘You know, I just realised something for the first time. Has it ever occurred to you that those you’re so driven to protect are always women?’

‘Perhaps it’s because men like you are so determined to destroy them, your Grace.’

‘No, I don’t think so, Falcio. That’s the lazy answer, the one that lets you pretend to be a man of justice.’ He cocked his head and stared at me. ‘My, my . . . is it possible that the death of your wife left you with such a terribly narrow sense of duty? I wonder, Falcio, when you see a man being beaten on the street, do you think, “A-ha! A victim of evil-doers! I must save him with elegance and flair!” or do you sigh and mutter to yourself, “Well, I suppose I should do something. The wretch might have a wife, after all, and I wouldn’t want her to be upset over his death.”’

‘No, your Grace,’ I replied wearily, ‘when I see someone being beaten and tormented, man, woman or child, I always think the same thing: here is Tristia, the land of my birth, a place where corruption and violence always have a home.’

‘Careful, Falcio. You almost sound as if you hate your own country.’

‘I do,’ I said, before I could stop myself, and realised, maybe for the first time, that it was true: I hated Tristia. I hated it as much as I hated Jillard and Trin and Patriana and all the others that would see it destroyed – or worse, in fact, because it was this wretched nation that had given them birth.

It was a dangerous and foolish thing to say to Jillard, however; he could have used the admission against me. Instead, he looked at me with an expression that almost approached sympathy. ‘Why then?’ he asked gently, ‘do you fight so hard to save it?’

I hesitated to answer, partly because I knew everything I revealed was another knife he could one day put in my back. But my thoughts turned to Aline, sitting there on her bed, trying so hard to be brave even though she was certain that one day soon she would die at the hands of an unseen enemy. ‘For her,’ I said.

‘Good,’ Jillard said, as though I had just conceded the argument. I suppose in a way I had. ‘The heir to the throne nearly died today at the hands of a madman, Falcio. She was ill-protected, and that is your fault. So let’s stop acting as if we’re equals and instead you can come with me so that I can teach you how to better serve her.’

He turned and began walking down the hall at a pace that made it clear he expected me to follow.

‘You do realise that most of the attempts on Aline’s life came from you, don’t you?’ I called out as I tried, to the great complaint of my ankle, to hurry down the rest of the stairs.

‘That was yesterday, Falcio,’ Jillard called back. ‘Times have changed. Best try to keep up.’

*

The Duke of Rijou led me all the way across the palace, past a pair of guards and down a set of stairs to a basement that, by my estimation, shouldn’t even have existed. ‘We’re actually inside the left side of the arch itself,’ he told me when he saw me looking around, calculating where we were. ‘The architecture is really rather fascinating.’

He led me into a long, poorly lit room with a flagged floor. The walls were bricks and mortar, but one long side was set with cabinets and shelves filled with small jars and boxes and books. On the other side the wall was lined with a dozen or so wooden drawers, each one about three feet square. I knew even before the smell hit me what was inside those drawers. ‘You brought me to the death house?’

Those who died in the palace were brought here for temporary storage before being assigned appropriate burial, depending on their house and rank.

Jillard sounded amused. ‘You look uncomfortable, Falcio. Are you quite all right?’

‘That would be my ankle, your Grace, and if you just made me walk all this way as part of some elaborate, theatrical threat, I promise you there will be one less empty coffin in that wall tonight.’

He didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking nervous. ‘Don’t be silly – why would I bother threatening you when all it does is make you smug and self-righteous?’ He went over to one of the shelves and retrieved a brass lantern that turned out to have its own sparking mechanism to light the wick. The room brightened, and I could now see the tables at the far end of the room, and the body on the one closest.

‘It’s the assassin,’ I said, staring at the man who’d tried to murder my King’s daughter. His body was still clothed, though thankfully someone had taken off Harden’s greatcoat. It bothered me the way the corpse lay in such quiet repose. There was a tray of sharp metal instruments next to the table, and I picked up one of the knives between my thumb and forefinger, enjoying the blade’s balance and feeling a powerful compulsion to use it to cut the assassin into pieces, to remove whatever humanity was left in him, to make him suffer in death, if not in life.

‘A terrible thing, isn’t it?’ Jillard said, ‘Having to resist the righteous impulse to commit atrocities against one’s enemies.’ He sounded genuinely sympathetic.

‘What did you want to show me, your Grace?’

‘I want you to look at his face, then his hands and then his feet.’

‘You want me to
what
?’

The Duke just gestured towards the body, and then walked over and leaned against one of the cabinets. ‘Just tell me what you see.’

I’d already spent more than enough time in the throne room staring at the man’s face. The ruin he’d made of his mouth by biting off his own tongue was now obscenely accentuated by the swelling of his face. ‘He used to be better-looking,’ I said flippantly.

‘He did indeed,’ Jillard replied. ‘I must say, you were rather amateurish in the throne room, Falcio. If you’re going to interrogate a man, always make sure you have control of his jaw so he can’t bite off his own tongue. A truly committed spy will always do that first to keep from blurting out secrets under torture.’

‘He was bleeding out rather quickly. I’m not sure how much torture he needed to worry about.’

‘Not all men know how to resist torture, Falcio. That should be your first clue.’

Except that most assassins and spies
are
trained to deal with pain – so this man wasn’t a professional. He was fairly young, which didn’t tell me much. In life his face would have been smooth and clear, neither tanned nor overly pale. His hair was reasonably short and well kept.

‘Now his hands,’ Jillard said.

I picked up first his left then his right. Neither showed the calluses I’d associate with a soldier or a swordsman. His skin was soft.

‘Now the feet, Falcio.’

Irritated as I was by Jillard’s tone, I nonetheless complied, because a picture was starting to form, and sure enough, once I’d removed his boots I found that the soles of his feet were also smooth. Most people can’t afford the kind of footwear that fits well enough to keep from getting various ailments ranging from fungus to malformed toes. This man was well-born.

The thing about spies and assassins is that, contrary to romantic songs and stories, they’re usually poor. Pretending to be a noble is harder than one would imagine, since most noble families actually know each other. So when a man comes to listen to your secrets or slit your throat in the night, he’s usually disguised as either a servant or a soldier.
Besides, rich people don’t need to risk their lives for money.

‘Do you know who he is?’ I asked.

Jillard joined me at the table. ‘No, but I suspect he comes from a minor noble family, possibly the third or fourth son of a Lord.’ He turned to me. ‘This wasn’t your first encounter with these so-called “God’s Needles”, was it?’

‘Your spies keep you well informed, your Grace, since I only just informed Valiana of that incident some two hours ago. Does the Realm’s Protector know that you’ve got—?’

He waved a hand absently as though the issue was irrelevant. ‘The one who attacked you. What do you remember about her?’

I thought back to the woman who’d ambushed us on the road. Had she been the daughter of a noble family as well? She’d played the part of a commoner at first, but her voice, her diction once she revealed herself as a God’s Needle, had changed, become more refined. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now it seemed too much of a coincidence.

Jillard caught my expression; evidently I’d confirmed his suspicions. ‘I read about a peasant cult, hundreds of years ago, who believed they could gain power for themselves by drinking the blood of Saints. Of course, they died out so one would assume it wasn’t very effective.’

‘So someone has recreated the cult of Saints, only now they’re recruiting from noble families?’

Jillard said, ‘Although that doesn’t appear to be the only thing that’s changed.’ He gestured to the body of the man who’d stood there laughing even as the blade dug deep into his heart. ‘It appears that drinking a Saint’s blood really does give you unnatural abilities now.’

*

‘I can’t help but wonder, your Grace,’ I said, struggling to keep up with Jillard as he strode back up the stairs, ‘this sudden concern for Aline’s wellbeing. Is it perhaps because, once we get down to considering those most likely to – and capable of – engineering something like this, your name is certain to be high on the list?’

The Duke favoured me with a hint of a smirk. ‘A grand conspiracy, Falcio? Religious fanatics masquerading as Greatcoats? Such things were always more to Patriana’s taste; I prefer less grandiose methods to achieve my ends. Besides, having to spend time listening to such religious nonsense, their fantasy of being some kind of agent of the Gods?’ He shivered dramatically. ‘I think I’d rather stab myself.’

Although there was no act too vile for me to readily attribute to Jillard, Duke of Rijou, I had to admit this was precisely the wrong time for him to act. His own position within the country was still precarious; people hadn’t forgotten his part in Tristia’s most recent agonies.

‘This sort of thing would suit your daughter well enough,’ I said. On these occasions where circumstances forced me to spend more than a few seconds in Jillard’s presence, I found it helpful to remind him that Trin was the fruit of his loins.

‘She does have a taste for the theatrical,’ Jillard admitted, ‘but she has never been one to repeat herself.’

‘So, the clerics?’ I said, more to myself than to him. I’d never thought about it before but there was a decidedly old-fashioned bent to the churchmen of Tristia: perhaps they weren’t too keen on a woman taking the throne?

The Duke actually laughed out loud. ‘Those fools? They couldn’t conspire together to write a decent sermon, never mind orchestrate something like this. No, Falcio, I fear we have a new enemy now.’

I’m not sure which I found more terrifying, the idea that there might be a new player on the board, or Jillard’s use of the word ‘we’.

He must have read my mind. ‘You might as well accept it, Falcio’ – he placed his hand on my shoulder and I had to restrain myself from shrugging it off; I really needed to hear what he had to say – ‘it’s you and me against the forces of darkness: two dashing heroes preparing to risk all to put that darling little girl on the throne.’

I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t help it. ‘That’s the same “darling little girl” you tried to have killed, you understand?’

The Duke of Rijou looked singularly disappointed. ‘You know, you really are a bitter, vengeful creature at heart, aren’t you, Falcio?’

‘And you, your Grace, are a spiteful snake who slithers his way into power on the strength of his ability to deceive and manipulate others.’

‘I believe you’re thinking of Shiballe, my servant.’

It was a fair point.

Beyond his arrogance and corruption, the Duke of Rijou was in every conceivable way a despicable human being; he’d tried to have me killed on more than one occasion. On the other hand, by that standard I suppose he was no better or worse than any other Duke in Tristia, which was hardly a reassuring thought. But I badly needed an ally, and he was at least highly intelligent. I removed his hand from my shoulder. ‘I’m going to find a reason to kill you one day. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Jillard replied amiably. ‘Although that won’t be until after I’ve watched you rot away in one of my dungeons, moaning on in endless agony about the King’s Laws. I imagine that after a few decades even that immense pleasure will fade, at which point I shall gladly give you the honour of killing me. All in all, a fair arrangement.’ He stopped walking, turned and extended his hand to me. ‘Marked?’

‘Marked,’ I said, and shook his hand. I must have been feeling rather suicidal at that point. As we continued through the great hall I noted that someone had hung up the old tapestries once again. The one that caught my eye featured a circle of heroically rendered noblemen assembled around a rather humble King. You’ll find similar in every palace in the country.

‘Now that we’ve cleared that up,’ Jillard said, ‘let’s get to business,’ and he ushered me into the castle’s infirmary, a huge room with many smaller chambers off it where the wounded could recuperate in some comfort.

‘You’re not planning on treating my wounds, are you, your Grace? Because while I recognise your significant expertise in the causing of all manner of wounds, I have some doubt as to your ability to heal them.’

He looked at me as if I’d just suggested marriage. ‘
Treat your wounds?
Don’t be silly, Falcio. I’m here to give you something far more valuable – and necessary, given our present circumstances.’

‘And what would that be, your Grace?’ I responded politely.

‘A lesson in politics.’ And he led me through the infirmary to a small room at the end where a woman in her later years was propped up in bed, her left leg splinted and raised. A younger man, burly, but dressed in fine clothing, looking enough like her to be a son or a nephew, perhaps, sat by her bed. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of me and he started clenching his fists.

‘Your Grace!’ the old woman shouted happily, and began rustling at her bedding, as if straightening it might improve the room’s appearance.