Knight's Shadow (10 page)

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 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 apologise 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 favour 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 first-hand. Can you defeat me without actually killing me?’

Kest thought about that. ‘Fourteen strikes.’

‘Sir Shuran,’ I said, ‘I realise 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 towards 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’ Greatcoats.’ He smiled at Dari and Valiana. ‘No offence 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 towards 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 pre-empt 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 walls 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 realise 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 centre. 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 towards 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 arse 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?’