The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) (20 page)

But Clemen came first. Though the boy didn’t know it yet, Roric needed Lindara more than Vidar ever would.

I’m an old fool, is what I am. Vidar wouldn’t pledge loyalty to us, then betray us at the first chance. Nor would Aistan or any other lord. It’s as I held from the outset. Harald’s brat died by mischance.

And there that terrible night must end. Roric had to accept it, and announce the day and time of his acclamation, and take a wife, and breed a son… and let his promise flower, to the good of all Clemen.

Eaglerock castle’s largest and most splended audience chamber was a lofty, intimidating room. Its floor was diamond-tiled in scarlet and black, its stone walls panelled in gleaming white ash inlaid with cherrywood, and its ceiling was a frescoed blue sky chased with white clouds and stooping falcons. One enormous stained-glass window behind the ducal throne admitted the chamber’s only natural light. An unhooded falcon ruled the intricately designed glass, perched arrogant upon a
steel-gauntleted fist. The cherrywood throne itself stood on a white ash dais, with talons for feet and outstretched falcon’s pinions on either side.

Roric touched the throne’s carved arm hesitantly, as though the polished, ancient timber might sear him for temerity.

“It won’t bite,” said Humbert behind him, sounding impatient. “Though I tell you, boy, I might if you don’t soon sit your arse in the curs’t thing.”

Resentment pricked. He let his hand fall to his side. “Boy?”

“Well, it’s a sham to call you
Your Grace
, isn’t it, when you won’t let the council acclaim you.”

“How many times must I say it, my lord? I still have unanswered questions about—”

“
Enough
, Roric! You’re as answered as you’ll ever be!”

Turning, he watched Humbert stamp his familiar, belligerent way toward him from the chamber’s open doors. One of the guarding men-at-arms discreetly closed them, so they could bellow at each other in private. When they were face to face, his foster-lord thumped to a halt and fisted both hands on his soberly robed hips.

“D’you hear me?” Humbert demanded, flushed. “Liam’s dead. Let him lie. And for Clemen’s sake let us here and now pick the time of your acclamation!”

“For Clemen’s sake, Humbert, how can I?” he said, keeping reasonable with some effort. “How can the duchy acclaim me, honour me, when—”

“Clemen honours
strength
, Roric! Not this womanish beating of your breast. It honours purpose and duty and men of their word!”

He stared. “What does that mean?”

“It means my ears are still ringing from Vidar’s angry complaints. And Roric, he’s in the right of it. You made him a promise.”

“Which I will keep!”

“Before his arse starts hanging out of his threadbare hose, or after? I tell you plain, boy, he’s so short of coin now he’ll soon be eating his horse. And if you think Aistan and the others haven’t noticed then you’re tipped in the skull.”

“If Vidar’s short of coin he can come to me. I’ll—”

“Why should he? It’s not charity he deserves, boy, it’s a duke who keeps his word!”

Struggling to hold his temper in check, Roric began to pace the
gaudy floor. “I can’t help Vidar till I’m legally acclaimed duke and I can’t be acclaimed duke till Liam is avenged. For I know in my heart he was murdered and—”

“Are you truly such a lackwit?” Humbert roared. “Is this how I raised you? How Guimar before me raised you? Does Berold’s blood flow through your body or has there been a mistake?”

Brought up short, Roric swallowed. “Humbert—”

“You know in your
heart
?” Humbert’s fisted hands lifted, shaking. “What cat’s piss is
that
?”

“My lord, you taught me to trust my instincts. And my instincts—”

“I taught you to be a man your father would be proud of!” Humbert spat. “At least, I thought I did. But it seems I was wrong. It seems you’re more like Harald than I knew.”

“You’re unfair!”

“What’s
unfair
is that poor crippled bastard Vidar, limping to me one-eyed, with his hand out, begging for what he’s rightfully owed!”

He made himself meet Humbert’s furious glare. “All I want is justice for Liam.”

“Well, you’ll not have it!” Humbert retorted. “A fart on your instincts, Roric. You’ve no proof of murder and no way of finding it now. All you’re going to get is more bloodshed, because with every day you delay you give Harcia more reason to think Clemen’s a lone lamb without its shepherd. Get it through your head, boy.
The brat’s death is a blessing!
”

Humbert’s words struck him like a hammer blow to his heart. “What?”

“You were right about me, that night at Heartsong,” said Humbert, savage. “I am glad Harald’s son is dead. Clemen’s best served with a clean page, unwritten. Heartsong’s in the past. Accept it.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then Clemen will fall into chaos, making you more of a villain than curs’t Harald ever was.”

Not a hammer blow, this time, but a long, thin blade neatly slid between his ribs. He could feel the blood flowing from his bruised and battered heart. His eyes were dry, though, all his tears wept out for Liam.

“I only started this for Clemen,” he said, voice low, throat aching. “To save us from Harald.”

Humbert heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “I know, boy. Now finish it. Or what was all that dying for?”

A terrible question, with but one answer. Humbert was right. No matter what he suspected, he had no proof. “Fine, my lord. You win. I’ll speak no more of Liam.”

“Good,” said Humbert, sounding equally shattered.

“Was there anything else?”

Humbert tugged at his beard. “Yes, but it can wait. The Marcher lords are here.”

“I know. I saw them arrive.”

“They’re likely on their way up now.” Humbert cleared his throat. “Roric—”

Needing a moment, Roric pushed past him to the dais and took his place on the Falcon Throne. The cherrywood was cool beneath his hands as he grasped its carved arms. Never before had he sat it. As he accustomed himself to the feeling, he released a slow breath and considered the man who meant so much to him.

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“Worried me,” said Humbert, the hectic colour fading from his face.

“And angered.”

“True,” Humbert agreed. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I was harsh, boy. You’ve a good heart.”

“But?”

“But sometimes I fear the goodness in you will over-rule the iron.”

Deliberately, Roric relaxed his tight fingers. “And a duke should be iron first and foremost, with goodness trickled into the miserly nooks and crannies that remain?”

Humbert nodded. “He should, Roric. And you know it.”

That thin blade, still rib-lodged, twisted. “Alas, Humbert. I do.”

Humbert made to answer, then turned his head at a heavy rapping on the chamber doors. “Enter!” he bellowed, then stepped back until he stood beside the dais. The doors opened, revealing one of the castle’s stewards. Nathyn.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “I give you the Marcher lords, come to Eaglerock at your behest.”

T
he Marcher lords.

Roric felt his heart thud. His first test, then. One he couldn’t afford to fail. Not with Humbert’s fiery words still heating the chamber’s air.

“My lords,” he said coolly. “You’re welcome to court, and have leave to approach.”

Travel-stained and stubbled, their spurs muddied, their surcoats splashed, the Marcher lords came forward to bend their knees in respect.

“Be upright,” he said, gesturing. “And receive my thanks, that you’d set aside all natural inclinations towards sport and come before me unbloodied.”

A swift exchange of glowering glances told him that if these lords were unbloodied, it had been a close-run thing.

Bayard of Harcia lifted his chin. “Lord Roric—”

“
Your Grace
,” said Humbert, the watchdog.

Bayard’s insolent gaze shifted. “Oh? It’s my understanding the lord Roric isn’t yet acclaimed Clemen’s duke.”

“A formality, soon to be dealt with,” said Humbert. “Have a care, Bayard.”

“Your Grace,” said Lord Egbert, a swift glance blunting Bayard’s dagger glare. “Clearly we are clouded in confusion. Indeed, Duke Aimery confided his surprise that you’d send for us before first consulting with him.”

“I’ve no need to consult with Harcia on matters touching this duchy, or the treaties that bind your duke and me to the peace and protection of the Marches,” Roric retorted. “Indeed, those treaties oblige me to be vigilant and impress upon the Marcher lords of Clemen
and
Harcia my dedication to their strictures. Besides, your duke was informed I
wished to see his castellans. If that weren’t so, would you be here? Lord Wido—”

Wido, who’d proven himself skirmishing in the Marches, inclined his head. “Your Grace?”

“My late cousin Harald placed some great measure of trust in you. To my knowledge it was not
mis
placed. Should I now think elsewise, with Harald buried and myself duke in his place?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“And you, Lord Jacott. My cousin once told me you sometimes o’erstep your authority. He laughed, and called you
doughty
. But I wasn’t amused.”

A muscle leapt along Jacott’s tensed jaw. “Your Grace.”

“Egbert!” he snapped. “Why are you smirking? Do you think I’ll wink at Harcian horseplay? Have you told Aimery that the bastard Roric isn’t to be feared?”

Startled, Egbert of Harcia gaped. “Your Grace—”

With a silencing look at Humbert, he leapt up from the throne, off the dais, and confronted the Marcher lords.

“For your sake, my lord, I hope you weren’t so foolish. Or you, Bayard.” Prowling before them, remembering Guimar, and Berold, Roric slapped his once-wounded thigh. “For there are scars on my body to prove that boast a lie–as well you know, for I was scarred in Clemen’s service when Harcia forgot its honour and threatened the Marches’ peace. Never doubt I’ll risk more scars, and worse, should Harcia forget its honour again!”

“And what of Clemen’s forgotten honour?” Bayard demanded. “Do you say we’ve never been provoked?”

He let the silence lengthen, then shook his head. “No. I say plainly, to your faces, that in dealing with your duchy Harald did forget himself from time to time. Tell Aimery I won’t.”

“And we’re to trust your word on that?” said Egbert. “Not knowing you?”

“My lords.” His smile made Egbert blink. “Doubt my honour and you’ll know me soon enough.”

“Your Grace,” the Harcian Marcher lords muttered.

“And tell Aimery this, too, when he asks what was said here today,” he added, “tell him Clemen is no lone lamb, wanting a shepherd. Our business is ours, and none of his, and there’s no unrest here that should give him cause to hope.”

“Your Grace.”

With the Harcian lords cowed, at least for the moment, he halted before Wido and Jacott. “As for you, my lords, don’t think my sword will unsheathe for Harcia alone. I wink at no man who flouts Marcher law or seeks to plump his purse at my expense–or Harcia’s. Your manors and your men-at-arms are held from me, and it is to
me
you’ll answer for any mischief.”

“Your Grace,” Wido and Jacott murmured, as one.

He smiled again, no less fierce. “Then, my lords, you may withdraw. My steward will escort you to some food and comfort, after which you’ll return to the Marches with all haste. And when you get there, be sure to spread the word. Clemen is well-defended. Peace will reign. Not war.”

“Ha,” said Humbert, once the chamber had emptied. “That’ll give Aimery something to chew on.”

“So, my lord. Was I iron enough for you?”

In Humbert’s eyes, a glimmer of praise. “It was a fair beginning.”

Typical Humbert, never satisfied. “Then go and inform the council I’ll meet with them tomorrow, at nine bells. It’s time the date was set for my formal acclamation.”

Humbert bowed. “Your Grace.”

Frowning as his foster-lord made for the doors, Roric felt memory tug. “Wait, Humbert. Didn’t you say you had more news?”

“I did,” said Humbert, swinging about. “Vidar and the Marcher lords knocked it out of mind.”

“Well?”

“Berardine of Ardenn. Did you invite her to Clemen, Roric, then let slip telling me?”

What nonsense was this? “Of course not. Why would I—”

“Because she galleyed into the harbour at first light,” said Humbert, fingering his beard. “As far as I can make out, not a soul among our own people knows she’s here. And for the life of me I can’t imagine why she’s come.”

Eaglerock township late at night was a place patchworked with silence and feverish goings-on. The bakers and the tanners and the seamstresses and the blacksmiths and the butchers, all the men and women who plied their honest daylight trades, at this creeping-towards-midnight hour, slept above or behind their premises and dreamed of purses filled with coin. In the township’s grand houses Clemen’s lords and ladies also slept, or
else sported themselves behind their closed doors. But though eleven bells had rung, the torchlit waterfront taverns were still lively. The brothels, too, and the cockpits. Braziers burned on each street corner, little islands of heat in the night’s chilly ocean.

Heat and light could also be found in the township’s merchant district, where rows of warehouses and the plain dwellings of foreign trading factors huddled close to the waterfront, a fastidious stone’s throw from the taverns and brothels. But it was no haven of ale-soaked levity, where carousing sailors and dock-men gambled and buxom wenches flaunted their breasts, promising more for a copper nib or two, and cutpurses taught the unwary a sharp lesson. No, the merchant district was sober and hardworking, where as many different tongues as there were trading nations could be heard, the speakers’ voices raised in the pursuit of plump profits.

Though the harbour was closed from nightfall to dawn, Eaglerock’s docks and wharves remained torchlit so the men who made their fortunes and risked their lives buying and selling goods in this busy part of the world could unload the wares from their late-arrived galleys, or fill their emptied ships with such treasures as Clemen had to offer: tinwork, and lavish leatherwork for fine lords and ladies and their horses. Jars of honey, dried fruits, smoked meats, a few looked-for medicinal herbs. Glazed earthenware, exquisite silversmithing and jewellery, delicate woodwork, and the finest illustrated manuscripts, for Clemen’s artisans were renowned. Barrels of ale and cider, as good as any foreign wine. Horses, too, were shipped to Cassinia and beyond. The best of them were bred in Harcia, but Clemen rode not far behind.

Wrapped close in a leather cloak reaching past his knees, a waxed woollen hood covering his head and shadowing his face, Roric picked his way unchallenged along narrow, winding Hook Alley. Before stealing clandestine from his ducal apartments, he’d told his chamber-man he had business abroad so the alarm wouldn’t be raised if his bed was found empty. Aside from Theo, though, no one–not even Humbert–had an inkling of this jaunt.

What he’d share of it, in the end, would be decided by what he learned when he confronted Berardine of Ardenn.

One of Humbert’s useful men, who by fortunate chance knew the duchess by sight, had noticed her unheralded arrival in the harbour then followed her to the home of Master Tihomir, Ardenn’s trading factor in Clemen. It was clever of Berardine to stay with him. Ardenn’s duchess
amid the rough-and-tumble of the waterfront? It was unthinkable. So no one would think it, and she could pursue her business without the scrutiny of Eaglerock’s many lords, its council and Clemen’s unacclaimed duke.

At last reaching Harbour Street, making his way with care down the steeply sloping thoroughfare towards the richest of the merchant warehouses where Ardenn stored its bounty, Roric frowned. Whatever Berardine’s business was, no matter how innocent, should Harcia get wind of it, or even her presence, unfriendly questions would be asked. If the sun shone too bright for too long, Harcia blamed its parched pastures on Clemen. And it had always resented Clemen’s friendship and profitable trading with Ardenn. Given this provocation, what mischief might Aimery stir should it come out that Berardine had travelled to Clemen in stealth?

He didn’t know, and had no desire to find out.

A lively breeze gusting up from the nearby harbour brought with it snatches of music playing in the taverns, whispers of laughter and teasing touches of spices carried from distant, mysterious lands. Roric took a deep breath, savouring the exotic hints. He’d always wanted to travel. As Clemen’s duke he could find reason to sail abroad, visit all the duchies of Cassinia. Even venture so far as the famed City State of Lepetto in the Danetto Peninsula. Dreaming of it, a distraction from his worries over Berardine, he took another deep breath… and stopped.

He smelled
smoke
.

And then, as he breathed in again to make sure he’d not imagined it, he heard the waterfront alarm bell start to clang and saw an orange-red flicker of flames in the near distance. One of the merchant warehouses had caught fire.

Cursing, he loosened the tight lacings on his leather cloak, and ran.

Shouting. Screaming. A crush of shifting, staggering bodies. Mayhem and madness. Cold night turned to hot day, with leaping flames and billowing heat.

“
Help here, help here!
”

“
Aza g’ai rethuni, tibeno rethuni!
”

“
Rouse the harbour master! Rouse the town serjeant!
”

“
Milafasso! Tuk-tuk-tuk!
”

“
Water, I need water!
”

“
Out the way, y’crook-back lump!
”

Panting, coughing, Roric slipped and tripped to a halt. Nearly crashed
to the stone-paved ground as a grim-faced Zeidican sailor burdened with a sloshing bucket in each hand barrelled into him and kept going towards the heart of the nearest burning warehouse. Six in all fronted this stretch of the harbour–and by the coats of arms nailed high and proud to their doors, four of the six belonged to Ardenn. Poor Berardine, to receive such a welcome. One of her warehouses was well alight, one smouldered ominously, with two others belonging to Ardenn’s sister duchy Voldare in immediate danger.

Breathing hard, Roric stared around him. Had Berardine braved the night and the danger to witness Ardenn’s losses? He couldn’t tell. Chaos ruled.

Boots thudding on the dockside, cries of despair, of encouragement, howls of fury, shrieks of fear. The loud clanging of bells, the slap and splash of buckets being plunged into the harbour and hauled out again. A frantic sizzle and hiss as water met fire. Nightmare shadows. Choking smoke. The throat-closing, lung-bursting stench of charred wool, burning oil, melting metal, blazing wood.

The nursery at Heartsong
.
Liam’s burned cradle. Liam’s burned body. The silent, ringing echoes of Argante’s fatal grief
.

Roric shook his head sharply. He had no time for memories now.

“Here, y’gormless bollock!” a soot-streaked man shouted, thrusting an empty bucket into his hand. “Don’t just stand there!”

The bucket’s handle had a rope tied to it. Desperate, he kneed-and-elbowed his way to the dock’s edge, tossed the bucket into the churned harbour alongside all the other tossed buckets and hauled it out again full of water, muscles cracking. Kneed-and-elbowed his way back through the heaving crowd towards the fiercely burning buildings. A sudden wind whipped up, whipping sparks and embers with it. For a moment the world stopped and he stared at their savage scarlet and orange beauty as they danced and swirled and flirted with the night, hardly feeling his lungs sear and his eyes water from the heat and smoke. Not caring, not even frightened, only stunned because in the midst of destruction there could still be such
splendour
…

“It’s no use!” someone close by bellowed. “We won’t save it! Let’s do what we can for the rest!”

The bellower was right. The first warehouse to catch alight was swiftly burning itself into a timber skeleton. But the other five in the row, they still might be saved–and the rest of the merchant district with them.

Gasping in vain for clean air, he fought the warehouse fires like a
knight of old battling a flame-breathing dragon. Fought alongside sailors from a half-score of nations, and Clemen dockmen, and Eaglerock taverners, and bare-breasted brothel wenches. Fought unrecognised and unremarked, just another soot-streaked face in the crowd. The heat was so fierce he could feel his exposed skin crisping, even as sweat soaked through linen and velvet. His leather cloak was a torment but he didn’t dare throw it off in case someone recognised him. A stray, rueful thought occurred in the midst of the madness.

Humbert will skin me alive when he hears about this.

Above the shouting voices, crashing burned timberwork and roaring flames, a new and different sound. Skin-crawling, horrible: the screams of terrified horses. No man who’d heard it even once in battle could forget it, or mistake it for anything else.

Dropping his emptied bucket, Roric turned. Heard someone shout, “Harcia’s stables!” A handful of men abandoned the warehouse fires to run uphill and crosswise, heading towards that dreadful animal screaming and another ominous, scarlet-and-orange glow in the night.