By midday we’d arrived at the Ducal Palace of Aramor and knocked politely at the gate to give the guards the papers that ensured that we’d be brought in to see Duke Isault unharmed. So much for courtesy: before we’d really had a chance to take in the palace sights we were surrounded by two dozen Knights in full armor, their swords drawn in a singularly unwelcoming manner.
“Brasti, the next time you feel it necessary to put an arrow through a Knight’s chest,” I said, my voice as calm as I could make it, “try not to do it in front of twenty of his fellows.”
“Or at least kill more than just the one,” Dariana suggested.
The five of us stood face-out in a tight circle inside a massive stone courtyard, looking at what I was pretty sure was a detachment of Ducal Knights. They gripped their two-handed warswords and began close in on us, step by step. Sometimes they would stop, as if waiting for an order from their captain, and then invariably one of them would say something threatening and advance toward us, just an inch or two, and the others would follow. From above I imagined we must look like a troupe of dancers not yet sure when to begin the performance.
“For the record, Falcio, that particular piece of advice is best delivered in advance of the action in question. Also, he was about to kill you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He had his sword out and was aiming it at your neck.”
“He might have just been trying to make a point,” I said.
“Yes, the point being that a man’s head can indeed be separated from his body with a single stroke.”
He was right, of course: The Knight who’d had his sword on me had shown no inclination toward conversation other than to keep repeating “Trattari scum” over and over. In his defense, he’d clearly been standing in the hot sun all morning and looked as if he were baking inside his armor. I hadn’t had time to draw my rapiers so Brasti had made a judgment call. It wasn’t a bad one, except in so far as we were all going to die now. The Knights keeping us penned in were just waiting for the order from their Knight-Captain before they overpowered us.
“You need to reconsider your next move,” I warned the Knights in front of us. “No one else needs to die today.”
“Do you Greatcoats always talk this much when you should be fighting?” Dari asked.
“Always,” Brasti and Kest said together.
“I’m starting to see how the Dukes managed to kill off the King so easily.” Her voice betrayed no sign of fear. She kept her left hand on Valiana’s arm. I wasn’t sure whether this was to reassure her or to keep her from charging headlong to her death.
I scanned the tabards of the Knights surrounding us. Each bore the silver steer of Aramor on a green field. One of the Knights had three stars above his steer.
“Knight-Captain!” I called to him. “We came here to meet with Duke Isault in good faith—”
“What value is a Trattari’s faith?” he asked from behind a steel helm.
“Apparently more than a Duke’s, these days,” Brasti said.
“You’re not helping.”
The Knights were still edging forward, but why hadn’t they attacked already? I turned toward Kest. “What are our chances of winning?”
He looked around at the twenty Knights surrounding us in the courtyard, at the large gate that had been closed behind us, then up at the high interior walls, probably looking for places to climb if we could break out of the circle. “No chance whatsoever,” he said.
“Really?” I’d been expecting something bad, but nothing quite so final.
“Twenty to five, and they’re wearing full armor. We must have caught them on training exercises or during a troop review,” he said. “Possibly there’s a parade later today. Is it a holiday in Aramor?”
“Perfect,” Brasti said. “We’re about to die and the Saint of Swords is busy trying to figure out if there’s going to be a feast later.”
“All right, but what if we break through the circle?” I asked.
“Look up on the walls,” Kest said.
I’d been so determined to talk our way in and avoid bloodshed that I hadn’t taken notice of the multitude of men with crossbows hiding in the ramparts. “Ah, hells,” I said.
The Knight-Captain saw my reaction. “There is only one way out for you, Trattari. It leads through a river of your own blood. Come and meet the fate you have earned a hundred times over.”
“You break faith with the laws and traditions of Aramor and dishonor your Duke!” Valiana shouted, holding her sword out in front of her.
The Knight-Captain laughed. “And what would you know of a Duke’s honor, whore?”
“I—”
“Nothing,” I said. “She knows nothing of these matters, Sir Knight. Let her and the other woman go. They are merely travelers seeking entry into Aramor and have nothing to do with this.”
“Then why are they wearing greatcoats?” the Knight asked.
I heard Dariana snort behind me. “Is he always this brilliant a strategist?”
The Knight-Captain laughed again. “I’ll leave the first move to you, Trattari.”
I caught Kest’s eye, then Brasti’s and they nodded to me in turn. We all knew what was to come next. Every duelist one day meets his better. The day you begin to learn the sword is the day you start to ready yourself to feel its point driven into your own belly. But Valiana wasn’t a Greatcoat, not to me, anyway. She was an innocent young woman who’d never had the chance to prepare for a death like the one coming for her. She deserved better.
I whispered to Dariana, “When the fighting starts, we’ll try to break their circle. When we do, you grab Valiana and the two of you make for the guardhouse next to the gate. There’s only one man there and you can use his door to get around the gate.”
She looked at me with a smirk. “Are you trying to save my life or my soul? You think I’m not ready to die fighting these bastards? You think I’m afraid?”
“Dariana, I think you’re utterly insane. I think you’re eager, if not desperate, to die fighting. But Valiana’s not like us. She’s not—”
“She may be a pretty little bird but she’s got the heart of a lion, First Cantor. You shame her by treating her like a child.”
“Fine. She can hate me for it later. For now, do what I’m telling you.”
She looked at me questioningly for just an instant before nodding. Smart. She knew when a fight couldn’t be won.
I turned back to the others.
“So it’s over then?” Brasti asked.
“It’s over,” I said, and was surprised by the strange calm that came over me. There’s a serenity that comes in knowing you’ve got only one thing left to fight for.
“Fine,” Brasti said. “If today’s the day then, well, fine. But if I have to die then I’m taking some of these fucking Knights with me.”
“Which ones should we kill?” Kest asked. “We can take six—no, you’ve got your fast bow, haven’t you? So eight.”
The Knights inched forward again. They were less than ten feet away now. Another step and they’d launch their attack.
“Excuse me?” Brasti called out. “We have a bit of a dilemma here.”
“I’d say you do, Trattari,” said one of the other Knights, laughing.
Brasti ignored him. “You see our friend here, the Saint of Swords? He reckons we can kill eight of you before you kill us. Now, I’m sure some of you are perfectly nice people, though why a perfectly nice person would ever choose a career as a Knight I don’t know, but everyone makes mistakes. One time I even—”
“Get to the point, Brasti,” I said.
“Right. Well, if any of you are wife-beaters, child-killers, perhaps murderers of old people? Could you just sort of raise a hand or nod? It would make it a lot easier for us.”
“Brasti, that’s ridi—”
But to my utter amazement, one of the Knights started to raise his hand, just for a moment before he saw his fellows look at him. No one ever said you had to be brilliant to wear armor.
“Right,” Brasti said. “So which was it? Wife-beating, child-killing? Did you—? Ah, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He pulled an arrow and let it loose. It pierced the man’s gorget and he went down, blood spouting from his neck. “All right. Who’s next? Anyone mean to animals?”
The Knights roared as one and moved to close the gap between us. I’m not as good as Kest at working out how a battle will go, but I guessed we had just under a minute before we were overwhelmed.
“Go!” I screamed to Dari, and turned my attention to our enemies. The key, when there are far, far too many opponents, is to try to get them in each other’s way, and the best way to do that is to move in as close as you can to your enemies—but that means exposing your back to them. Another way is simply to try to get them to want so badly to be the one who kills you that they literally jostle each other out of the way. It’s easier to do than you’d imagine. In fact, we have a song for it.
I pulled out my rapiers. “Every Knight I meet is a sickening fool,” I sang.
Kest chimed in immediately, “He’s cowardly, vain, he is ugly and cruel—”
“He’d gladly rape his own mother,” Brasti harmonized cheerfully.
“His sister and his brother,” Kest added.
“But most days he’ll settle for his own damn mule!”
The Knights barreled into us, which turned out to be helpful as it made it hard for the crossbowmen on the walls above to hit us. A warsword was coming straight down at me; I lifted the guard of my right rapier, keeping the point down, and let the blow slide along the blade, sparks trailing after it. Another Knight swung his sword in a straight horizontal line so I slipped past the first Knight and let the blow hit him in the belly. Better his armor took the hit than my coat. A quick glimpse showed me that the girls were still with us. I cursed the Saints, but I had no time to do anything about it.
We tried to stay inside the mass of Knights to make it harder for the crossbows to hit us. Our greatcoats can withstand a bolt or two but the impact would be jarring enough to make us lose concentration, and even a moment not focusing gives someone the chance to jab something pointy into us. I glanced up briefly at the crossbowmen above and to my surprise saw they were standing stock-still, restrained by their own Knight-Captain, who had his right arm held high, apparently holding his men back. Something was wrong here. Why was one group of Knights trying to kill us while the other wasn’t?
Brasti was swinging his bow in a wide horizontal arc, keeping the Knights at bay, but the tactic wouldn’t work for long. Kest had already engaged three of the men and I could see two others trying to get behind him. It was over for us. So soon? I thought. I don’t think time slows down when death is coming; I think our minds, realizing they have only a few moments left of life, simply work more quickly. Brasti would get two arrows off before he was overcome. Kest would keep his attackers off, only to have crossbow bolts from above pierce his head. Me? Well, there was a tall man holding a very pointy weapon that looked destined to meet my left eye in the very near future.
A horn, loud as a hundred eagles screaming, broke through the chaos.
Most of the Knights pulled back almost instantly—the man thrusting his sword at my face didn’t manage to stop in time, but he was distracted enough that I was able to parry the blow myself.
The horn rang out again, this time three very short bursts, and the Knights withdrew from the fight and formed up in four lines. The two we’d killed before the fight were still on the ground and five more had joined them.
For a brief moment there was silence as the dust slowly began to settle on the courtyard, then a voice broke through. “Knight-Captain Heridos, report.”
One of the Knights in the front row took two steps forward, as if he were about to address Kest, Brasti, and me.
“Knight-Commander, sir,” he said.
I heard footsteps from behind the soldiers and a taller man, bigger than the rest of the Knights, walked toward us, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. His tabard showed the steer of Aramor, but this one had four stars around it. He stopped in front of his Knights and faced us as if to prove that he didn’t need to see his men to know they would follow his commands.
“Report, I said.”
“We—” Brasti began.
I elbowed him. “He’s not talking to us.”
“Sir Shuran, these Trattari attacked us—”
The big Knight, Sir Shuran, still facing us, said, “Oh? Was one of them dressed as Sir Kee? Because I do believe I watched from above as Sir Kee tried to sever this man’s head from his body before he’d even drawn a blade.”
“I told you,” Brasti whispered.
Heridos shifted uncomfortably. “Sir—”
“What instructions did I leave you with this morning, Knight-Captain Heridos?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“The instructions, Knight-Captain. What were they?”
Captain Heridos’s eyes narrowed, a seething disdain for the Knight-Commander visible in his expression. “Sir Shuran, sir, your instructions were to await the arrival of three envoys sent by the Pretender.”
“And?”
“Your orders were not to engage the envoys, regardless of provocation.”
Sir Shuran removed his helm. Short-cropped black hair sat atop square-jawed features. He looked to be in his early forties, though it was hard to tell because the left half of his face bore the leather texture and heavy scars of severe burns. “I have learned, Knight-Captain Heridos, that responding to provocation can lead to unpleasant results.”
The Knight-Captain hesitated for a moment, then said, “But, sir, even after Sir Kee was slain and before we attacked, the bowman slew Sir Retaris. And five more of ours lie dead on the ground.”
Shuran walked over to the corpse of Sir Retaris, the man Brasti had killed. He pushed at the body with the toe of his boot. “Which do you suppose it was?” he asked.
“Sir?”
“Wife-beater, child-slayer, or murderer of old people—which one do you think he was agreeing to?”
I was starting to like Sir Shuran. Then I reminded myself that he was a Knight and the problem went away. “Sir Shuran, my name is Falcio val—”
He held up a gauntleted hand. “A moment, please. I am not quite done with my men. Knight-Captain Heridos, you allowed Sir Kee to attack the men I specifically instructed you to not to engage. You then surrounded them and made it clear you intended to capture or kill them.” The big Knight shielded his eyes against the sun and looked up at the ramparts. “You will take note that Sir Nemeth kept his own men on the ramparts in check as instructed. Finally, I feel I must point out that, with twenty of the finest Knights in Aramor, you succeeded in killing precisely zero of your chosen enemies while they have taken the lives of eight of my men.”
“Sir?” the Knight-Captain asked.
“Yes?”
“They only killed seven of ours.”
Sir Shuran left the corpse and took a position in front of the Knight-Captain. “Thank you for reminding me. Kneel and remove your helm, Sir Heridos.”
The Knight-Captain looked from left to right for a moment, as if hoping someone would speak up for him. Then he knelt and removed his helm, revealing long blond hair and a youthful face.
Sir Shuran pulled out his sword. It was a simple thing, without any ornate elements or inscription on the blade. But I noted that it was exactly the right length for a man of Sir Shuran’s height, of whom there couldn’t be many, and broader than a normal sword, as if it were weighted for someone of his obvious strength. This was a custom blade, well made and expensive, despite its simple appearance. This man placed a high value on his weapon but hadn’t the vanity to have it decorated.
Sir Shuran took the sword in both hands and held it above the Knight-Captain’s neck. “Are you prepared, Captain Heridos?”
“Yes, Knight-Commander.”
“Do you require a moment to give prayer to your gods or instructions to your men on any disposition of personal items to your loved ones?”
“No, Knight-Commander. I am ready to die.”
“Here, in the dust of the courtyard? For no better reason than I require it?”
“Yes, Knight-Commander.”
“Very well,” Sir Shuran said. “Foolishness has cost you your life, Knight-Captain. It’s only fitting that obedience should buy it back.” He replaced the blade in the sheath at his left hip. “Remain where you are until the sun has set and risen again.” He left the man kneeling there and walked over to me. “I am Sir Shuran, Knight-Commander of Aramor and loyal servant to Isault, Duke of Aramor.” He removed his gauntlet and extended his right hand to me.
I stood there like a statue for a full minute. I have met more than a hundred Knights in my time. Not one has ever asked to shake my hand, or that of any Greatcoat.
“Falcio val Mond,” I said, taking his hand at last and shaking it awkwardly. “First Cantor of the King’s Greatcoats.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but how are you the ‘King’s Greatcoats’ when the man himself is dead?”
“It’s mostly an honorary sort of thing,” Brasti said. He extended his hand gleefully, waiting for the Knight to refuse it. “Brasti Goodbow.”
To his surprise, Sir Shuran shook his hand as well. The big Knight looked past me and said, “Ladies, I apologize for the discourtesy of my men.”
I turned and saw Dari and Valiana standing behind me. “Door was locked,” Dari said.
“And you,” Sir Shuran said, turning to Kest. “Am I correct in saying that you are the Greatcoat known as Kest Murrowson?”
“I am,” he said.
“There is a story going around that you claim to be the greatest swordsman in the world.”
“I find I rarely have to claim it,” Kest said.
“He’s a Saint,” Brasti said. “Just not the Saint of Humility.”
Sir Shuran smiled. “I wonder, sir, if you might favor me with a bout, should we have the time?”
Kest looked over the Knight appraisingly, then he looked past him at the man’s footprints on the ground. “You have a heavy left-footed stance,” he said, “keeping your right side to your opponent, perhaps to shield the burned side of your face from attack?”
“Perhaps,” Sir Shuran replied.
“Or is it because your left eye is somewhat damaged and you don’t see as well as you need to?”
The Knight smiled. “That, too, is a possibility.”
“You’d last ten strikes with me. Perhaps twelve if the sun were in my eyes.”
“Well then, not much point in a bout if you have it all—”
“I do.”
“Still though, if we get the chance, I’d like to find out firsthand. Can you defeat me without actually killing me?”
Kest thought about that. “Fourteen strikes.”
“Sir Shuran,” I said, “I realize that the idea of being beaten half to death by Kest might be highly diverting to some people but we—”
“Forgive me, you’re correct,” he said. “I’m a competitive man at heart. But that’s not why you’re here. Let me take you to the Duke. He’s eager to meet you.”
As we walked the length of the courtyard and into the palace proper, I tried to make sense of this big Knight who appeared to hold no antipathy toward me or the Greatcoats. It’s not as if there was a law commanding that all Knights despise us—well, not one I’d seen with my own eyes, at any rate. And yet something was bothering me. “You ordered your men to await our arrival,” I said as we walked up a wide set of stone stairs.
“I did.”
“How did you know we’d arrive today?”
“I didn’t. They’ve been waiting for you since we received word you were coming.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Six days.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs. “So you told twenty Knights and twenty crossbowmen to stand out in the hot sun every day for a week and wait for three Greatcoats.”
“Is there a problem, First Cantor? I also ordered them not to attack you.”
“Yes, yes, you ordered them not to attack us. But you knew they would, didn’t you? On a good day, with a purse of gold, a full cask of wine, and after fucking Saint Laina-who-whores-for-Gods, a Knight would still find an excuse to attack a Greatcoat. These men—”
Sir Shuran started walking again and we followed him down a long hallway past red and green tapestries. “Those men should have obeyed their orders. A Knight needs discipline above all things. But most of the time, following orders is easy for a Knight. We ask them to do things they expect. Things they even like to do.”
“So you thought you’d take advantage of the opportunity to see just how well trained your men were.”
“Yes,” Sir Shuran said. “And now I’ve learned.”
“And what if they’d managed to kill us before you intervened? Wouldn’t your Duke have found that a bit of a pain?”
“First Cantor, my understanding is that you three are the best of King Paelis’s Greatcoats.” He smiled at Dari and Valiana. “No offense to either of you; I’m sure you’re both stout fighters. But if the stories are to be believed, Falcio escaped a Ducal prison, tamed a fey horse, defeated Dashini assassins—something that’s supposed to be impossible—and slew the Duke of Rijou.”
“Which is not nearly as impressive as the fact that he brought him back to life,” Brasti said.
“Quite so. Therefore, First Cantor, I can only conclude that if my men had killed you before I intervened, Duke Isault would have no use for you.”
We reached the end of a hallway wide enough to drive a caravan through. The two guards standing outside the imposing entrance saluted Sir Shuran and opened the great double doors in tandem. Inside was a large room with a throne at the far end. Sir Shuran pointed toward it. “Go ahead,” he said. “The Duke will see you when he’s ready.”
The five of us spent the next hour standing like statues in the hereditary throne room of the Dukes of Aramor. “What are we doing here, Falcio?” Brasti asked for the third time.
“Shut up,” I said for the fourth. The first time had been an unsuccessful attempt to preempt the others.
The room was pretty much a perfect match for every other Ducal throne room I’ve ever found myself in over the years, which is to say that it looked much as you might expect a King’s throne room would. Tapestries hung from the wall showing scenes of various battles (one had to assume they didn’t bother with any in which Aramor wasn’t victorious). Swords and shields adorned the square columns spaced out along the length of the room, each one bearing the Ducal crest, but with enough individual details to delineate particular members of the line of Isault. There was just enough sparkle of silver and gold to reach for royal elegance without quite achieving it.
It must have been hard for a man like Isault to live here, knowing Castle Aramor was only thirty miles away and was both grander than Isault’s palace and completely vacant since King Paelis had been deposed and killed. To be so close to the seat of Tristia’s power and yet unable to so much as walk through the front door without setting off a war with the other Dukes must have annoyed him no end.
Eventually an old man entered through the same door we had, followed by four pages carrying heavy silver trays. Two tables were set, one on each side of the throne, each laden with food and wine, and then the servants left and the old man took a position by the door. I wondered whether the food was set there as a test to see if we’d eat it before the Duke arrived.
“You realize that you ask Falcio that question quite frequently?” Kest said.
“What?” Brasti asked.
“‘What are we doing here?’ You ask him that question wherever we go.”
“And?”
“By now you should assume he doesn’t have an answer.”
Thanks, Kest. I looked back at the door where we’d entered. Sir Shuran was standing there. He nodded to me. I nodded back. The old chamberlain stood next to him. He didn’t grace me with a look of any kind. I would have been offended, but I wasn’t entirely sure the old man was awake.
“Just keep your tongues,” I said to the others. “Shuran’s been more polite than we could’ve hoped for thus far, and I don’t want to offend anyone.”
“They tried to kill us, Falcio,” Brasti said.
“The Ducal Knights always try to kill us. At least these ones are polite. Nine duchies in the Kingdom—there has to be at least one where people respect us.”
“Ah, there they are,” came a deep, rumbling voice from behind the throne. “The whoresons of King Paelis, their tongues still brown with the dried crumbs of his defecation.”
I had never met Isault before, so I watched closely as he entered the room from a door set in an alcove a few feet behind the throne. He was a man of average height and middle years with a substantial belly; his clothes, green and gold, made of silk, or something like it. They weren’t especially flattering. Neither was the wooden crown with gold inlay and a large green jewel in the center. Only in Tristia do Dukes get to wear crowns.
“Your Grace,” I said, without bowing.
“Shit-eater,” he replied, and walked the two steps leading up to the throne. He sat down heavily. “There’s food if you want it. But eat from that table,” he said, pointing to the one on our right. “The other one’s for me.”
Yes, because you never run into trouble eating food that’s been prepared just for you when the other guy has his own food. “We’re fine, your Grace. We ate earlier.”
The Duke reached down, nearly tipping from his throne. His crown fell from his head and clattered on the ground. He didn’t seem to care. Instead he grabbed a leg of meat that had once belonged to some type of large bird. “Chicken,” he said, biting into it. I wasn’t clear who he was referring to. “I see you brought whores. Which one of them is for me?”
Dariana said, “That would be me, your Grace.”
Isault saw the disturbing grin on her face and turned to me. “Why do I get the feeling that this nasty little creature has things other than my pleasure in mind? Perhaps she would enjoy it more if I bound her hand and foot first?”
Her expression changed instantly. “I would delight in your attempt, your Grace.”
I put a hand on Dariana’s sword arm. Her eyes went from my hand to my face. She looked much more angrily at me than she had at the Duke.
“Rude little thing. I see she wears a Greatcoat too, which explains it. The problem with you Greatcoats is . . . ah, hells. Beshard!” he shouted to the old man at the back of the room, “What was I saying the problem with the Greatcoats was? You remember, the other day?”
“They’re full of themselves, your Grace,” the chamberlain shouted back.
“Right! Quite right. Full of yourselves. That’s what you are.” His Grace leaned toward us and whispered theatrically, “Beshard is a saggy old queer who dreams of buggering me in my sleep but he’s as loyal as a pit-terrier.” Isault tossed the chicken back at the plate on the table. He missed. “Really, you should try attacking me. I swear old Beshard will get here before Shuran does.”
“Duke Isault—” I began.
“Now you’re probably wondering why I summoned you here,” he said.
“Umm . . . you didn’t summon us, your Grace. We came on orders from the Tailor on behalf of Aline, daughter of—”
“Yes, yes . . . Aline, daughter of somebody, ruler of something, heir to the throne of somewhere. It’s all shit, though, isn’t it?”
“I don’t quite follow, your Grace.”
“I said, it’s all shit.”
“Yes, your Grace, I heard the words coming out of your mouth. I just don’t understand them.”
Duke Isault reached over and picked up another piece of the bird—a wing this time. “Who cares who anyone is? You don’t know me—for all you know, I was born the son of a pig herder and some washerwoman confused me with the real Duke’s son. For all you know the real Duke of Aramor is out there pouring swill into a trough right now.”
Looking at Isault, his face already covered in no small amount of grease, I found the idea increasingly plausible.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Patents of nobility, Heart’s Trials, City Sages . . . it’s all of it a bunch of shit. But you’ve got those swords of yours, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “Now those matter. A hundred Greatcoats go and kick the ass of five hundred of Jillard’s men? That matters. Now, mind you, pull that trick more than a few times and you’ll find an army of thirty thousand in front of you. That’s what’s coming, you know that, don’t you?”
“What’s that, your Grace? I’m still somewhere back at the washerwoman.”
He laughed. “Hah! That’s the one thing I like about you. You Greatcoats. You’ve got . . . damn it! What was it I was saying those Greatcoats have, Beshard?”
“‘Balls’, your Grace,” Beshard shouted from the other end of the room. “You said they have . . . balls.”
“Balls! Great big balls,” Isault chortled, holding out both hands to give us a sense of both the estimated size and weight of the aforementioned balls. “You’re all half-crazy to begin with, what with your ‘the law says this’ and ‘the law says that’. Add a little war into the equation and soon enough you’ll all go rushing headlong into an army no matter what the size.” He shook a finger at me. “Thirty thousand men, boy. That’s what the Dukes could field against you if they banded together. Thirty thousand. Think you and your hundred Greatcoats can take on an enemy of that size?”
“No, your Grace. We couldn’t defeat thirty thousand.” I thought about my next reply very carefully. “But we’ll never have to.”
“Oh?” Isault asked, “and why is that?”
“Because you don’t trust each other,” I said. “You all talk about wiping out this opponent or that, but in the end you all fear the expansion of any one Duke’s power more than almost anything else. Your changeling pig farmer will sit on your throne long before the mythical army you’re describing ever sees the field.”
Isault started laughing: a big, uproarious laugh. “Ha! Now that’s the other thing I like about Greatcoats! Remember Beshard, what was it I said the other day?”
Beshard started to reply but I held up a hand. “Our sense of humor. Your Grace, forgive my impertinence, but could we get to the point?”
The Duke stopped laughing. “The point? The point, which you’d know if you weren’t quite so full of yourself, without that big pair of balls on you and that sense of humor you hold up like a shield, the point is that the Dukes should never be able to unite.”
“Then—”
“Unless you scare them enough. We united once before, did we not, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats?”
“Yes, you did,” I said, my voice cold.
“Oooh, Shuran, you better come and bring that big sword of yours over here. The boy’s giving me a dirty look. Oh, my!” Duke Isault started wiggling his fingers in the air.
There wasn’t much point in responding, so I didn’t.
Isault watched me for a moment and then said, “Good. You’re not as stupid as you look. Who designed those coats, anyway? You look like . . . well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, the King made all of us more scared of him than of each other and that was a mistake. He united us. We had no choice but to take him down. He had to go.”
Again I felt a dark heat inside me begin to rise. Duke Isault stared into my eyes, then he got up off his throne and walked down the two steps to stand right in front of me. “Give me that look again, boy, and I’ll go and grab my own sword and give you the beating you deserve. Think I can’t do it?”
“You’ll last two strikes,” Kest said. “Falcio will let your first blow pass and then—”
“The question was theoretical,” Brasti whispered, so loudly that I imagine the Duke’s dead ancestors heard it.
“I think you mean ‘rhetorical’,” Kest replied.
I held up my hand. “Leave it.”
“Smart,” Isault said. “Now be smart again. If you want to put your little girl on the throne, you’d better find a way to keep us fighting each other and not you and your traveling troupe of madmen.”
“You seem rather determined to see us find a way to beat the Dukes, considering you’re one of them, your Grace.”
He walked over to the table on the right; the one he’d told us to eat from. He picked up another leg from the bird. “Aye, I suppose I am.”
“Might I ask why?”
“I’ve some of my own reasons, but the most important one is that we need a King. Or a Queen. Or a fucking goat for all I care. Hells, even one of your little ladies here would do. But we need someone on the throne in Castle Aramor. We need King’s Laws.” He held up a finger. “Not a lot—not as many as Paelis wanted. But some. Enough. A man’s got to be able to work his land and raise his family and not fear that some shit-eating lordling will come to call to rape his daughters and steal his money. The whole economy suffers that way, you know that don’t you?”
I’d never thought of it in quite those terms, but . . . “Yes, your Grace, I do.”
“And what happens if those barbarian piss-drinkers in Avares come over the mountains one day? They’ll tear us apart. Thirty thousand men, I told you, didn’t I? That’s what all the Dukes could field if we banded together. Well, boy, Avares could put a hundred thousand in the field if they wanted.” He bit into his chicken.
Isault’s words made sense. His assessment of the state of the country was true and though I couldn’t be sure about his estimate of the size of any potential Avares army, the numbers wouldn’t surprise me. On the other hand, I still remembered the day the Ducal army had come to Castle Aramor. The army wasn’t particularly large, but it had troops from every duchy, including Aramor. “So why didn’t you support the King when you had the chance? Why not take a stand?”
“Take a stand?” He threw the half-eaten leg at me and it bounced off my coat leaving a little trail of grease. “Don’t call me a coward, boy. I told you: your damned King Paelis was pushing too hard and too fast. That bitch Patriana had us all up in arms, claiming the Greatcoats were going to start taking over the duchies. He’d’ve gone after Duke Jillard in Rijou first; he’d’ve had to—and then guess who sits between the armpit of Hervor and the asshole of Rijou?” Isault pointed a thumb at himself. “Aramor. That’s who.”
“The King never sought to take over the duchies,” I said. “Not one. There isn’t a single order ever issued nor any decree ever written. He just wanted to make the lives of the common folk more bearable.”
Isault gave a snort. “Really? Is that the lie he told you?”
I heard the sound of a Knight’s warsword being pulled from its sheath across the hall. “What—?”
I felt Kest’s hand on my arm. “You drew first, Falcio,” he said, his own right hand on the grip of his sword. I looked down to see it was true. I’d half-drawn my sword.
“Forgive me, your Grace,” I said. “I lost my head.”
“Aye, boy, you nearly did. Look, I’m not saying the King was a bad man. I’m saying that he too knew of the danger from Avares. He knew we have to become a more prosperous country if we ever hope to be able to field an army to defend Tristia from invaders.” He put up a hand. “I can see from the look on your face that we’re not going to agree on this point, so let’s leave it be. Let Paelis be the common man’s hero in your eyes and the cunning and self-serving strategist in mine. Perhaps we’re both right. Either way, Tristia can’t be strong without a ruler on the throne.”
“Then you’ll support Aline?”
He let out a breath through his nose and looked me in the eyes. “Is she really the best you can do?”
“I don’t understand, your Grace.”
“A thirteen-year-old girl with no training in how to rule: that’s our best hope?”
“She’s the King’s heir.”
“And the others?”
I kept my expression as neutral as I could as I tried to decide how to answer that question.
“Ah,” he said. “So you don’t know if any of the others lived. Well then. Maybe we’ll both be surprised one day.”
“But for now?” I asked. “Will you support Aline as Queen of Tristia?”
“Aye, I will.”
The tightness in my chest released. Aramor wasn’t a particularly strong duchy but it had wealth and a good food supply and it was a damned good start: it would give others a reason to consider supporting us. We could—
“I’m sorry, your Grace?”
He picked up the plate of chicken from the table and carried it with him up to his throne. “Don’t play the fool with me, boy. The old hag didn’t send you here empty-handed, did she?”
“No, your Grace. In exchange for your support, Aline is—”
“The Tailor, you mean.”
“I—”
“Aline doesn’t have shit to offer, boy. She’s a girl—she probably couldn’t read a tax levy even with two scribes and a large magnifying glass. The old woman is the one pulling the threads. We’re all just damned lucky she isn’t in the line of succession—I’d hate to see a world with that old hag on the throne.”
“Aline,” I said, emphasizing her name, “is willing to set the Crown’s tax rates at ten percent lower than they were when Paelis was King. She will also promise to keep the rates at that level for ten years.”
“Well, I’m paying next to nothing right now, so that’s not much of an offer.”
“That’s not entirely true, your Grace,” Valiana said.
“Eh?” he said, looking her up and down. “So she talks, too? Delightful! What other things can she do with her mouth?”
Valiana ignored the comment. “You pay substantial fees to the Ducal Concord each year.”
“Still only half of what I paid to Paelis in taxes.”
“Most of the taxes you paid to the crown went back into maintaining the roads and ensuring the trade that is so vital to your duchy’s economy. How much of the fees you pay now come back to Aramor, your Grace?”
“I think I liked you better when you were quiet and I could imagine you—”
“Imagine all you want,” Valiana said. She smiled and, just for a moment, I saw the haughty noblewoman I’d first met. “Meanwhile other Dukes swallow lands in the north and look south toward the fields and herds of Aramor. What do you suppose they’re imagining, your Grace?”
Isault looked singularly unhappy at the thought, and I took that as a good sign. “Aline will ensure your borders and trade routes are secure. She’ll also press the Lords Caravaner to lower the tariffs and exchange rates across the Spear and the Bow.”
“Oh?” Isault asked. “And how will she do that?”
“She’ll use some of the tax levies to repair the roads and place guard-stations along the trade routes.”
“Smart,” Isault said, “and might even work. But it’s not enough.”
“She’ll also agree to no new laws infringing on the duchies for a period of five years.”
“So, just long enough for her to grow up and learn what the current laws are? Fine. Still not enough.”
“Forgive me, your Grace. What else do you want?”
Isault held out his plate of chicken at me. Not knowing what else to do, I took it and placed it on the table.
“See that, boy?” he asked. “Ten minutes ago you’d never have taken the plate from me. Now you can smell a deal and you’ll happily debase yourself.”
“That’s not—”
“Oh, I’m not criticizing. In fact, I’m glad to see you’ve got a shred of sense in you. Because what I want, your little girl can’t offer me.”
“What is it you want, then, your Grace?”
He pointed a finger. “You.”
“Me?”
“You. The Greatcoats. You’re supposed to enforce the laws, aren’t you?”
“We are, your Grace.”
“And a Duke has the right to tax a man living in one of his villages, doesn’t he?”
“He does, so long as the tax—”
“‘So long as the tax is neither so onerous it cannot be fairly paid nor the penalty so heavy, and hogswash and horseshit and so on and so forth . . .’ Whatever. Point is, if I haven’t done any of that, they have to pay, right? Well, I want you and your boys there to go to the village of Carefal about three days from here on my western border.”
“Your Grace, I don’t understand. Are you saying you need us to travel to this village because a man refuses to pay his taxes?”
“Not quite,” Isault said. “I want you to go there because the entire village of Carefal has refused to pay their taxes. You’re going to go there, do your little Greatcoats dance and sing some song about the law and make them do their duty.”
“But don’t you have—?” I looked back toward Shuran.
“I’m not sending my Knights and soldiers to oppress some little village. I’ll either lose men or taxpayers. No, boy. You want to put your little girl on the throne? You want to be the law of the land? Fine. Go and prove to us you can administer the law for everyone.”
“And if we do this?”
Isault got off his throne, walked down the steps, and held out his hand. “I’ll put the full weight of Aramor behind your little girl. We may not have a large standing army, but the Knights of Aramor are the deadliest in the country. I send Shuran out there to stand in front of Trin’s soldiers and I’ll bet you half of them defect on the spot.”
“I . . .” I looked at the others. Kest looked uninterested; his eyes were focused on the shields and swords in the room. Valiana looked disappointed in me and Dari smirked as if she’d just won an argument. Brasti simply looked troubled. I knew how he felt; I was too. But I couldn’t see I had much choice. There was no way we could ever put Aline on the throne without the support of at least some of the Dukes, and no Duke was more likely to help than Isault. “Very well. I’ll go to Carefal. If the people there are refusing to pay their taxes, as you say, then I’ll judge in your favor.”
We shook hands.
“Go then,” the Duke said. “Shuran will go with you with some of his men to keep you from being killed if it comes down to it.”
As the five of us walked toward the exit at the other end Isault called out to me, “That girl?” I stopped and turned back to look at him. “I said I’d help you put her on the throne, and I will. But she’ll never last, Falcio. Thirteen years old? She’ll be dead a week after she’s crowned.”