Knight's Shadow (35 page)

Jillard’s arrogant tone lacked conviction; his gloating was hiding something underneath. ‘You seem to have thought of everything,’ I said. ‘So why are you so frightened, your Grace?’

‘Frightened? You think I’m
frightened
, Trattari?’ He laughed. ‘Frightened of what – an assassin? My Knights, including Sir Jairn – forgive me, of course I mean
Greatcoat Parrick
, here – have already caught the assassin. Of course, I will admit it is a little mortifying to see my relationship with the Dashini has dwindled somewhat since I sent two of them to their deaths chasing you.’

I turned to Parrick. ‘You captured a Dashini assassin?
Alive?
How?’

‘With a great deal of luck, and the lives of ten Knights. It was the weight of the dead bodies – all of them in full armour – piling on top of him that held him down long enough for me to knock him out.’ At my sceptical expression, he added, ‘I drove the pommel of my sword into his skull.’

‘And you’ve got him down in your dungeon, right now?’

‘Of course,’ Shiballe said. ‘Which is where you shall soon—’

I’ve got you, you arrogant bastard.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ Jillard asked.

The fact that he’d even asked the question let me know I was right. ‘If the assassin’s been captured and everything is fine, then why didn’t you arrest us on the spot? Why go through this whole charade? I think it’s because you
are
afraid, your Grace. I think you know there’s another attack coming.’

Jillard stepped down from his throne and glanced at Shiballe before turning to face me. ‘Then why don’t you tell me how these assassins plan to kill me when this one failed? Look around you, Falcio val Mond. I rule the most heavily armed city in the world. We stand inside a palace that could hold off an army. Five thousand men could lay siege outside my gates and they would get nothing for it but empty bellies.’

He was right, of course. Of all the Dukes in Tristia, Jillard would be the hardest to kill. But if the plan was to drive the country into chaos, then Jillard had to be the next target, and if someone wanted him dead, they wouldn’t stop at sending one assassin. All the way from Garniol I’d been asking myself how the killers would get to him, and there was still only one answer that made any sense to me. ‘Your son,’ I said. ‘Tommer. They’ll find a way to kidnap him and then they’ll force you to come for him, and when you do, they’ll kill you.’

The Duke’s face was suddenly very, very still and now I could feel the tension emanating from him. And there was something else there too: despair.

He’s hiding something – it’s already happened.

‘And Tommer,’ the Duke said, and now I could hear how forced was his flippancy. ‘In your hypothetical kidnapping, what will happen to him once I’m forced to give myself up?’

I thought about Isault’s family: his wife, his two sons, and a little girl who painted pictures of puppies hoping her father would give her one as a present. ‘I’m sorry, your Grace. They’ll kill him, too. If I’m right— I know you may not want to believe me—’

‘I believe you,’ Jillard said, his voice only a little above a whisper. ‘I believe all of it.’ His shoulders sank and the air whooshed out of him all at once. It was as if I were watching a performer as he came off the stage, too exhausted to remain in character any more.

‘They’ve already taken Tommer, haven’t they?’

Again Jillard shared a look with Shiballe, and then he turned back to me. ‘Yes, damn you. The reason I believe you – the only reason you’re not already hanging from the apple tree outside my chambers – is that two days ago my son, the only person I love in this world, was kidnapped.’

Parrick’s face turned so red I thought he might attack Jillard then and there. ‘Why weren’t the Knights told?’ he demanded. ‘We should be searching for him! He’s an eleven-year-old boy, damn it! He can’t—’

‘You weren’t told,’ Jillard said, ‘because we know exactly where he is.’

‘Where?’ Parrick asked. ‘I’ll get my men—’

‘At this very moment Tommer sits fifty feet below us, and the assassin’s blade is at his throat, ready to open his neck.’

‘He’s here?’ I asked. ‘
In your own dungeons?
But how—?’

‘Tommer said he wanted to see a Dashini assassin for himself. He’d heard the stories – of course it would be a great adventure to him, to see one in the flesh. And of course, I refused him. There are only two keys to the lower dungeon: one is held by the watch-guard and the other is in a secure case in my personal chambers. Tommer snuck in and stole my key.’

‘What about his personal Knights?’ Parrick sounded furious. ‘Surely they should have been with him at all times—?’

‘They were. He convinced them to accompany him – to
protect
him. He’s a good boy, but he’s not always obedient.’ The Duke’s voice dropped and I realised he was hurting badly. Despite my dislike for Jillard, I believed Tommer really was the one person he truly cared for.

I also remembered what the boy’s disobedience had cost Bal Armidor, the troubadour whom he had loved – was he really so callous that he would risk the lives of his Knights, knowing the cost of his father’s displeasure?

‘Those damned fools!’ Parrick said. ‘I’ll beat them to within an inch of their lives when I—’ He looked at Jillard, then at me and then at the floor as he suddenly realised how strange his outburst was, given his own particular situation.

‘I believe they are already aware of their error,’ Jillard said.

‘So what happened?’ I asked.

‘The assassin overpowered the Knights, my torturers and the other guards in the lower dungeon. From the smell down there it would appear he’s killed a fair number of them. Once a day he sends a rather bloody Sir Toujean to pass on his demands. Sir Toujean is not able to remain with us as he has a very long rope tied around his neck.’

‘And what are the demands?’

‘I should have said “demand”, singular: he wishes me to present myself to him.’

‘That’s it? When?’

‘At a time of my convenience.’ Jillard looked stricken. ‘He said that Tommer would . . . he said my son would last a number of days yet.’

‘Why haven’t you had your forces break into the lower dungeon?’

‘Because, Trattari, quite apart from the fact that the assassin has promised to kill Tommer if I try, we actually can’t get in. I believe I told you the last time I had the pleasure of your company that this palace is the most secure building in all of Tristia. Its dungeons are . . . extensive. The walls are solid stone, five feet thick, and the only door, two feet of reinforced iron, is supported by rods set deep into the stone above and below. There are only two keys, both of which are now in the hands of the assassin. The lower dungeon was designed to be inescapable. It appears that we made it impregnable as well.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Black Door

The thing I hate most about the Ducal Palace of Rijou is, of course, its current owner. But the original architect comes a close second, as do those who have added to it over the past two hundred years: it’s the way they have found no end of inventive details to make the palace into a perfect representation of Ducal power, from the massive three-tiered central ballroom, cunningly designed to make invited guests feel progressively smaller and less important as they are relegated to the lower tiers, to the rooms and hallways which become narrower, their ceilings lower, the further away they are from the Duke’s own chambers. Every door and alcove is designed to remind those passing of their station. And a particular favourite of mine: the unlocked stores of food and supplies are situated on the first floor below the ground, along with most of the servants’ quarters – and why tempt ill-treated maids and footmen with mouth-watering delicacies and easily stolen supplies? Because no servant of Jillard would ever be sufficiently desperate – or stupid – to risk the consequences, not when there’s a handy architectural reminder of the wisdom of self-restraint in the form of a huge iron door at the end of that hallway, beyond which lies the twenty-foot-long staircase to the first floor of Jillard’s extensive dungeons. And if that’s not quite enough to keep underpaid and underfed staff in line, just enough sound reaches the servants’ quarters to provide not-so-subtle reminders – day and night – of what will happen if they are caught stealing.

Rijou vae aurut et phaba
, the old saying goes.
Rijou runs on money and fear.

Some time around midnight eight of us made our way down those very stairs. As I had Kest, Dari and Valiana with me, Jillard had insisted that he should be equally represented, in the form of Shiballe and two Knights – one of whom was Parrick. That struck me as both odd and a little sad: for all his money and power, Jillard could think of no man he trusted more than the one who’d been deceiving him for the past five years. On the other hand, the people of Rijou have always been pragmatic. It was clear Jillard owed his life to Parrick, and several times over.

Parrick had removed his armour and was wearing his greatcoat, and as Jillard and I both stared at him I realised neither of us was pleased.

‘It’s mine, damn you both,’ Parrick said. ‘I earned it twice over and the man who disagrees is welcome to try and take it from me.’

The Duke and I looked at each other for a moment. ‘Wear whatever you want,’ Jillard said at last. ‘Just bring me back my son.’

The other Knight – the mousey-haired and limp-wristed Sir Istan – was the only other person Shiballe had entrusted with the information that the Duke’s son had been kidnapped. I wondered if that was because Sir Istan was so junior he was unlikely to have any ambitious allies yet. He was a nervous young man who descended the stairs in slow, clanking steps, all the while looking as if he had no expectation of returning from the dungeon. I’d spent five days at Jillard’s mercy not so long ago –
was it really only five days?
– and I entirely understood the young Knight’s fear.

What if this is all an elaborate trick?
I thought.
The murders, the story about the assassin – what if it’s simply a ruse to get me back here to this perfect little hell Jillard has created?
No, surely not. Even for me, that was taking paranoia to extremes . . . and yet I’d learned that those who wielded power in Rijou were entirely capable of setting the whole world on fire to achieve even the pettiest of ambitions.

I expect I’m about to find out, one way or another
, I thought, as Shiballe brought us to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

‘We will travel along this main corridor,’ he announced in a high-pitched, imperious tone, pointing, ‘and then turn into a smaller one that will bring us to a black-iron door, beyond which lies the stairway down to the bottom level. The black door is the only way to the second level. As Duke Jillard has already made plain, it cannot be breached.’ He looked at me, not bothering to hide his intense dislike. ‘So I think this is the right time to ask: how exactly do you plan to get past the door?’

I had no idea, of course, but unless I could find a way into the inner dungeon, Tommer would end up dead, followed shortly thereafter by Jillard, and once the Ducal line of Rijou was wiped out, the duchy would fall apart, and before we knew what had hit us, Tristia would have descended into the chaos of civil war.

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ I said. ‘I’m going to knock.’

Shiballe snorted and led us down the wide stone hallway that was the main thoroughfare for the first level of the dungeon. It was intersected by smaller passages illuminated by small bronze braziers hanging from the ceiling.

‘How many cells are there?’ Dariana asked, peering down one of the passages.

‘On this level? One hundred. Each one can hold between three and ten prisoners, depending on how comfortable we wish to make them.’

‘You can hold
a thousand
prisoners?’ She sounded incredulous. ‘What possible reason could you ever have to lock up that many people?’

Shiballe looked back at me and smiled. ‘Insurrection.’

As the sound of our footsteps reverberated along the halls, I could hear the prisoners moving in their cells and voices calling urgently, ‘Please, lords – there’s been a mistake! I never meant no . . .’ The first voice faded into nothingness as we passed but it was immediately replaced by another, and then another.

‘How many men do you have here currently?’ Kest asked the Duke.

‘Not very many at present – fewer than fifty,’ he said, ‘along with maybe twenty women and five or six children.’

‘You have
children
in your dungeons?’ Valiana looked ready to pull her sword then and there.

Duke Jillard looked at her with an expression somewhere between bemusement and genuine confusion. ‘It seemed cruel to separate them from their parents.’

I slowed and without a word Kest matched my pace. I waved the others on and when they were a little way ahead of us I turned to him and murmured, ‘If we do manage to get Tommer out alive and somehow prevent a civil war and keep Trin off the throne and – by some further miracle – I don’t die very soon . . . If we do get there, Kest, you and I are coming back here and we’re going to tear this place down stone by stone.’

Kest looked around at the walls, the floor and ceiling. ‘It looks to be hewn out of several thousand tons of rock, Falcio. Just saying. It might be a little difficult.’

I drew one of my throwing knives and scratched a line into the stone wall next to us. ‘We’ll find a way.’

‘“The First Law is that men are free”,’ Kest quoted. ‘Does that apply to criminals as well?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘but knowing what I do of Jillard – and however little that might be, it’s still
far
too much – I suspect there are plenty of people down here whose punishment does not fit the crime.’

A soft, gravelly voice reverberated from somewhere in the dungeon. ‘First Law is men are free,’ it said.

I looked around, trying to work out where the sound was coming from.

‘Come on,’ Kest said, ‘it’s just someone repeating what I just said.’

‘First Law is men are free,’ the voice sang tunelessly. ‘Without freedom . . . can’t serve heart. Can’t serve Gods. Can’t serve Kings. Fuck Kings. Can’t serve
heart
. Heart matters. Gods . . . Gods no matter. Heart matters. Man must be free.’

My eyes went wide. I knew that voice.
He called out your name a great deal towards the end
, Shiballe had said. Lying little monster.

I started down the hallway, crying, ‘Kest, help me find that voice.’

We ran up and down little passageways, past cells small and large, some filled with ingenious torture devices bristling with spikes and screws and sporting thick leather straps, some with nothing more elaborate than the smell of shit and urine and human suffering. The echoes pulled us in all directions.

‘What am I looking for?’ Kest asked at last.

‘An ugly brute of a man with pepper-grey hair shaved close to his scalp. Just follow the sound.’

‘Fourth Law is child not being hurt,’ the voice half-sang, half-hummed. ‘Child too small, too stupid, no understand. Can’t put child in prison. Can’t fine child. Can’t hurt child. Fourth Law is—’

‘Falcio!’ I heard Kest shout, and he appeared at the head of a passageway and waved at me to attract my attention.

I joined him in front of a cell some seven feet square separated from the corridor by thick floor-to-ceiling iron bars; between two of them was a small iron door, presumably to let guards in and out. Inside was a man, chained to the back wall. He had pale, mottled skin, small eyes and thick lips. His big hands were bound halfway up the wall, making it impossible for him to sit. I remembered those hands, the thick fingers, the hard knuckles that had struck me so many times I had doubted whether any feeling was left in them. Those hands had beat me bloody for hour after hour, and day after day while I was Jillard’s prisoner – but they had also lifted me up off the floor of my cell and carried me along the hallway, up the stairs and out of the dungeon. This man – and I didn’t even know his name – had been both my torturer and my liberator. I had called him Ugh.

‘Fifth Law is . . . fucking hells! What is Fifth Law? Okay. Okay. First Law. First Law is men are free. If man no free, how can man serve heart? How can—?’

‘Ugh!’ I called, and was surprised to hear my voice was shaking.

He looked up and slowly his eyes started to focus. ‘Who you? You come hit again, eh? Okay, okay. Come hit me. Break your hands, fucking girl.’

‘Ugh, it’s me – it’s Falcio.’

Again he tried to focus his eyes. ‘Falcio who?’ His gaze drifted to my coat. ‘Greatcoat. Fucking Greatcoat, eh? You back here, stupid fucking guy? Tough guy, tough like fucking crazy horse. I throw life away for you and you crazy come back here? Should have freed fucking horse instead.’

‘I’m free, Ugh, look!’ I held up my arms so he could see I wasn’t shackled. ‘I’m not a prisoner – but what in all the hells are you doing locked up?’

‘Caught me, some fucking Knights, bring me back. Is law torturer no set dumb Greatcoat free, I guess. Like King’s First Law only backwards, eh?’ He gave a hoarse little laugh.

‘Falcio, someone’s coming,’ Kest warned.

I looked at Ugh, chained to the wall. Now he was focusing: his tiny eyes in his wide face were staring at me. ‘I’ll be back,’ I said. ‘I’m getting you out of here. I swear it.’

‘Swear? Fucking Greatcoat. You make promises. Shit . . . all shit. Come back, don’t come back, is all same. Just . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Tell me King’s Fifth Law. I forget. Every time, I forget.’

I wrapped my hands around the bars of his cell. Ugh had heard me repeating those laws over and over during my captivity here; the King’s Laws had held my mind together during my torment – and those same laws had somehow, against all possible reason, changed his heart. ‘The Fifth Law is that no man shall be punished unjustly without first being proven guilty of a crime sufficient to warrant such punishment,’ I said softly, and then, louder, ‘No man shall be tortured.’

Ugh grinned. ‘Ah, yes. Fifth Law: no torture. Now I remember. Funny, this one I forget all the time, eh?’

‘I’ll come back,’ I promised.

‘Fine, fine, you come back. Stupid fucking tough guy Greatcoats. Probably back in chains, yes?’

*

Kest and I ran back and found the others waiting at the end of the large hallway. ‘See anyone you know?’ Shiballe asked with a smirk.

I badly wanted to beat him senseless, but his cruelty was just another useless distraction – one of dozens that stood between me and whoever was engineering all this chaos.

‘Just take us to the door,’ I said.

Shiballe ushered us down a smaller corridor that went on for nearly a hundred feet until it ended at the black-iron door. It might be two feet thick but it was less than six feet high; someone as tall as Parrick would need to stoop to pass through. The door must have weighed at least a ton. It had a row of three slits, each about six inches high and two inches wide, set about a foot from the top. Looking through one, I could see a roughly hewn stairway that I guessed must lead down into the depths of the second level. I could also see the remarkable thickness of the door itself; it was clear I’d have as much luck levitating the palace from the ground as I would breaking through that door.

Sir Istan pressed his face to the slits. ‘It’s like . . . it’s like the throat of some ancient creature beyond. The rock of the passage is black and red like the inside of—’

‘That will suffice, Sir Istan,’ the Duke said. He turned to me. ‘Well, we are here and now you have seen the door. Do you have a plan?’

I looked carefully at every single part of the door, from its front face to the edges where it met the stone walls. ‘There are no hinges,’ I said. ‘How does it open?’

‘There is a rod, six inches wide, that passes vertically through the left side of the door and into the rock, ceiling and floor, and acts as the hinge. When the door is unlocked, it swivels around that rod.’

I looked for the place where the rod passed through the door, but couldn’t see any signs of it, and in any case, I doubted it would be a weakness. The stone above the door was rough and jutted out in places, forming tiny little ledges, but the rock was carved, not made from individual pieces that might be worked loose.

‘Why not just use a battering ram?’ Dariana asked. ‘They can bring down castle walls.’

‘That’s precisely the point,’ Jillard said. ‘The door itself is stronger than the rock – even if we had a ram strong enough,
and
we could get it down this passageway,
and
fit in the men needed to lift it, it would take days to even begin to damage the door. But what it would do is destroy the rock, and in the process the ceiling would disintegrate, and it wouldn’t be too long before it started to fall and bury everyone, sealing the passageway for ever and leaving my son trapped below.’