The Fell Sword (83 page)

‘My lord—’ she began, but it was time to sing.

They sang the ‘Three Ships’ and they sang a carol about the slaying of the innocents, and all the Queen could see in her head was a man-at-arms slaying her new-born babe. Then they sang the ‘Agnus Dei’ and a mighty hymn, and then the ‘Rising of the Sun’ and the circles formed to dance, the women as the deer, the men as the hunters.

They were in the great square below the castle, and they danced down the river steps and out onto the Albin, which was frozen six feet thick already and would freeze further before spring arrived. Palace servants came by on skates with warm wine, and then they sang again, this time ‘Jesu the Joy of the World’ before they were away again in six great circles in the torchlight.

The crowd mixed with the palace servants and the court itself, so that there were apprentices and their girls, knights and their ladies, merchants of the town – the Queen curtsied to Ailwin Darkwood and he turned her sedately and handed her to a tall journeyman wearing an iron badge and steel ring of the armourers’ guild.

‘What’s your name, young sir?’ she asked.

‘Tom, Your Grace.’ He bowed extravagantly to her and vanished down the chain.

As they closed in for the next figure, the King took possession of her and marched her along the shore. A pair of pages held torches so close to them that she feared for her hair, but she looked up into his face and smiled, and he smiled down at her.

‘What I was trying to say,’ he managed, ‘was that in my pater’s time, we were much closer to the Wild at Christmas. It was fun. And good for the knights.’

She leaned up, her fur-lined boots secure in the slippery, stamped-down snow, and kissed him on the lips, and hundreds of people close by let out a whoop and did the same.

‘The Wild is always close,’ she said. ‘We are the children of it, not its enemies. You can find the Wild under the floors of the New Palace, and Wild in the woods across First Bridge.’

‘What you say is close to blasphemy,’ he said.

‘Nay, my lord. Simple fact. Feel the air – smell the spruce? You could reach out and touch a tree in the Adnacrags tonight. The world shimmers on the solstice, my lord. The gates are all open, or so Master Harmodius used to say.’

The King stopped and looked up. Behind him, a thousand couples paused, sipping wine or kissing or wondering what the royal couple were about, but such pauses in the dance were not so rare.

‘God’s truth!’ the King swore. ‘I’ve never seen so many stars, that much is true.’ He picked her up and spun her. ‘By God, madam, why can I not believe you? I want nothing more than a son.’

She put his hand on her belly. ‘There is your son, my lord. Feel his heartbeat – feel it beating strongly for Alba.’

He leaned down in the torchlight. ‘I cannot believe that you would betray me.’ His hand was warm against her.

Then they were moving again, and the procession returned to a circle, and she lost the King in the turnings – in the great chain that some old Harndoners said marked the binding of all the people of Alba, one to another. In a very old way.

The Queen moved on, first turning with a circle of women – there was Emota, her expression strained, and there was Lady Silvia, a new girl from the north, and a trio of red-faced merchants’ daughters, giggling with panic at being in the Queen’s set, and then she was whirled away into the great chain again, and she touched hands with a young knight of Saint Thomas, who smiled at her with a beatific peace on a heavy, bluff face; on along the chain, a dark-visaged man with dirty hands who nonetheless beamed at her, and a handsome man in a magnificent fur-lined hood, the fabric some sort of Eastern silk worked in figures that flashed in the torchlight. She had a pair of torches by her all the time; despite her elation, she knew that both young men were royal squires, and both were armed. Young Galahad d’Acre alone could handle a dozen footpads or any number of men of ill intent. It wasn’t that she was afraid – merely that the last few days had made her uncharacteristically aware of her vulnerability. And her baby’s.

Another figure, and she was being turned in place by a man – one of the Galles. He passed her off – somewhat roughly, she felt, but she feared to imagine a slight – and she heard a shout from behind her right shoulder. She reached out a hand and it was taken, and there was the Captal himself. He turned her, his hand not quite resting on hers and his smile fixed in place. His eyes were on the commotion and she turned – it was time for the women to gather in their own circles—

Galahad was down. She knew that from the change in the light. He was struggling to get to his feet and someone hit him.

The snow had extinguished his torches.

She acted, humming deeply in her chest and reaching into the night – and to the stars – and taking what she needed.

The two torches burst into light – brilliant, screaming light.

Galahad caught his assailant a stout blow in the groin with a burning torch and the man burst into flame. He stumbled away into the crowd, and the crowd gave a shriek and parted cleanly before him.

Galahad got his feet under him and raised the torches, ruthlessly illuminating his attacker’s last moments. The man burned – his flesh and muscles and fat burned very fast, and his screams stopped, and the blackened sticks of his bones fell to the snow, hissed and went out.

A delicious smell of roast pork wafted over the crowd, and a woman threw up her dinner.

Galahad was weeping.

The Queen looked around her, seeing Lady Almspend close, and Lady Sylvia a little further back. But no Lady Emota.

One of the Galles – the Count d’Eu – took her. ‘Your Grace is, I think, in some danger,’ he said.

She retreated a step. The Galles were all around her.

‘With me, Galahad. Where is young Tancred?’ she asked, keeping her voice as steady and light as could be managed.

‘Here at your back, Your Grace,’ Tancred’s high, girlish voice was at odds with his heavy build and single brow.

‘Please allow me to escort you to the King,’ the Count said. He bowed, and the pressure of his hand on hers was normal. Kindly meant.

One of the Galles wearing d’Eu’s colours put a hand on the breast of another Galle and pushed, and the man went down.

The Count’s hand pinned hers like a blacksmith’s vice and he held her arm under his own as if they were wrestling. He dragged her along. She almost lost her feet and stifled a scream.

‘Your Grace is in great danger,’ he muttered to her. ‘My men are doing their best to foil it, but there is an attack on your person. I swear to you it is none of my cousin’s doing. I would know. Come.’ D’Eu swept her along the ice, and she was comforted that her two squires remained tight by her sides, both wearing short swords and maille under their fur-lined cotes. Galahad’s torches continued to burn more white than red, and the light they cast illuminated the darkness for a bowshot.

‘My ladies!’ she said suddenly.

The Count paused and turned. ‘Monsieur d’Herblay!’ he called. ‘The Queen’s ladies!’

At the edge of the light, a man dressed in clerical black gave a bow and turned. He went back into the darkness with a dozen men at his heels.

The crowd around them began to thicken like ice forming in a bucket. The Queen felt her right hand going numb, so fiercely did the Count pin her hand. She saw concerned faces flash by – the man in the beautiful hat bowed, and then followed her, and then she saw the tall boy, Tom, and he, too, followed.

She saw a dozen torches gathered together on the river, and she knew the King was there, and the relief she felt was so palpable that her knees trembled beneath her.

The King was laughing with the Count of the Borders and the Master of the Staple. He turned and handed her a cup of wine, even while a pretty young woman with red hair plucked at his hand.

‘Come, Majesty,’ she said.

The Queen took her cup, and the red-haired young woman dropped a curtsey and backed away into the crowd.

The King picked up the tension from her hand, and from the thin set of the Count d’Eu’s lips. ‘What is happening?’

The Count d’Eu bowed. ‘Your Grace, I have no firm idea, but men attacked your squire here, and I feared for the Queen.’

‘He was right to do so,’ the Queen said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

The King returned the Count’s bow. ‘Then you have my thanks, messire, as always. We must go back to the dance. People will talk.’

He ruffled young Galahad’s hair. ‘What happened to you? You look white as the snow.’

‘I – I struck a man.’ Galahad’s voice caught. ‘And he burned like a torch.’

The King paused, one foot already lifted to walk. ‘Did you?’ he asked. ‘There is a prophecy . . . never mind now.’ He set his face and leaned down to his Queen. ‘This is an odd night, and I’ll be the happier when we are done with it.’

Then they were back on the river, and she was dancing again. The air became heavy, and she had trouble breathing. There was something in the torches, she thought . . .

She turned with a stranger, a small man with a pointed black beard. He had a brilliant smile and jet-black eyes.

Behind him in the circle—

Chapter Sixteen

Liviapolis – Assassin and Kronmir

H
e sat on the edge of the privy shelf, reassembling his weapon. The crossbow could be taken down into eighteen parts, all made of steel, which he laid on the dirty white wool of his hood. He could wind it by turning a screw built into the stock; he could wield it one-handed, and loose it with a thumb catch mounted atop the weapon. It had been made by a master in Etrusca, and the bolts it shot were tipped in steel. The bow itself was a length of steel spring as big as two spread hands, and it had, in addition to masterful construction, a hermetical device that assisted the user in turning the loading screw.

He cleaned the water and the mud from every bit of the shining steel and oiled it with fine whale oil.

When he was done, he cocked it carefully and engaged the safety on the massive nut that held the string, and then placed it in the tinker’s basket on his back. Despite a year of training to use it, he felt real fear in carrying it cocked and loaded, against his back.

But his whole life was about managing fear, so he unbolted the door to the privy in which he was hiding, pulled heavy oiled-wool mittens over the chamois gloves on his hands and settled his basket on his back.

He was very cold, and he knew he was being hunted.

Kronmir was waiting, exactly where he said he’d be, under the arch of the ancient aqueduct just as the bells rang for five o’clock. The assassin was a little surprised to hear the sounds of cheering from the Great Square – so loud that they easily carried the mile and more to where he stood.

Kronmir wore a festive Christmas hood and a long robe like a merchant, but the wreath of berries on his head was the safety signal and the assassin approached him with confidence.

‘Christos Anneste!’ he said. It was the greeting for Easter, not Christmas – a final signal that guaranteed that all was well.

‘Christos Anneste!’ echoed his contact. ‘You missed.’

The assassin paused. ‘I beg to disagree. I shot him from very close, and I saw the bolt strike home.’

Kronmir rubbed his chin. ‘He’s jousting. He appeared and bowed to the princess not half an hour past. I gave up on his death and left the square.’

The assassin bit his lip. ‘I suppose you want me to try again? But I have used my contact and my plan. The next attempt will be amateurish by comparison.’ He fingered the amulet that Kronmir had given him. ‘You will get me out?’

‘The best magister in all of the Empire made that amulet. We’ll get you out.’ Kronmir nodded. ‘He has to dance in public. With the princess.’

The assassin shook his head. ‘His men are everywhere. And they’re looking for me. You think he won’t be covered like a blanket? Crowds only protect you when no one is looking for you. And I don’t have a second persona – this tinker is all I have.’ He coughed. ‘I’m sorry. I do not mean to make excuses, but everything about this job has been wrong from the attack on the palace. We shouldn’t have failed then, and I shouldn’t have failed tonight. It is as if God is against us.’

Kronmir nodded. ‘I agree. But I generally do what I say I will.’

‘Aye. As do I.’

The two men allowed their eyes to meet. The assassin shrugged. ‘Very well. If you can get me out, I’ll have another go.’

‘Our next rendezvous is at the Silver Stag Inn on Saint Katherine Street. I have a system prepared to extract you from the city. It may not be me meeting you at the inn, so your sign will be a wreath of golden laurels and the password is “stasis”.’

The assassin frowned. ‘He must have a hermetical aid. My bolts should have dealt with that. Any thoughts?’

‘Most hermetical aids take time. Shoot him from much closer.’ Kronmir shrugged. ‘I am like a student lecturing a master.’

The assassin shook his head. ‘I am murdering a man who seems for the most part good – and doing it at Christmas. And I have already failed. I’m not happy; I much preferred slaying tyrants in Etrusca.’ He handed Kronmir a small tube. ‘This is for my partner, in the event of the worst. Listen – you have been a fair employer, protecting me all that time while I healed up. We will be grateful, however this comes out.’

‘That’s good,’ Kronmir said. ‘Because if this goes badly, I’ll have to move to Etrusca.’ He slapped the assassin on the shoulder. ‘Go and get him, and all this will seem like nerves tomorrow.’

The assassin shrugged. ‘If it is so easy, why not deal with him yourself?’

Kronmir bowed. ‘It is a fair point. If you wish to withdraw, I will not feel you have broken our condotta.’

For the first time, the assassin smiled. ‘Now that was fairly said.’ He stretched his back and patted the side of his basket. ‘I’ll get him. I always feel this way before I drop a man. Some feel the sag after the kill – for me, it’s before. Bah, I talk too much.’ He inclined his head. ‘Be well, whoever you are.’

‘And you,’ Kronmir said, and walked off into the snow.

Liviapolis – The Red Knight

When the snow was swept away, the citizens of Liviapolis began to dance. They turned and swept around, with many a leap, and many a fine ankle displayed under a richly embroidered hem. Women wore hoods, here, in winter, and the men wore fur hats very different from those the Albans wore, and the dancing was different – more athletic. Women leaped while they turned, and landed on one foot. Men jumped, feet slashing high to touch their hands and back down in time to land.

Ser Michael watched it, hand in hand with his Kaitlin whose belly was very big and who still wanted to dance. At her shoulder was Ser Giorgios and his bride. The two Moreans had taught them all the figures.

It was like Alba, and yet very unlike, and Michael was lost in a torrent of thoughts – lost, and yet very much in the present. He leaned over and kissed his wife.

‘Is the Captain very much hurt?’ she asked.

Michael grimaced. ‘I think he’s badly hurt and hiding it,’ he said, and gnawed on his glove a little.

‘They’re coming back to the starting figure,’ Helena said. She put a gloved hand on Kaitlin’s back. ‘I hope that I carry mine as well as you carry yours,’ she whispered.

Kaitlin laughed. ‘Lanthorn’s are built for making babies,’ she said.

Her husband laughed in his glove and turned away. ‘In so many ways,’ he whispered to her, and she slammed an elbow into him so he slipped on the ice.

The Red Knight appeared among them while they were laughing. He beamed at Kaitlin and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘The very image of fecundity,’ he said.

She curtsied. ‘I’ll assume you are trying to be nice,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and dance with the princess? Look! She’s waiting for you.’

Ser Michael met his Captain’s eye.

‘Just so,’ he said, and went to face the princess.

‘He’s not very nice to her,’ Kaitlin said. ‘Yet she’s mad for him. Look at her. Will he wed her, do you think?’

Michael pulled her by the hand. ‘I don’t think so, love. There’s things you don’t know. I admit I don’t know much either.’

‘He doesn’t exactly have anyone else,’ Kaitlin said, and laughed. ‘I’m a terrible gossip. But laundresses know these things.’

Michael led her down the steps from the lady’s pavilion to the dancing in the square. ‘It’s politics. There’s always more to it – but she isn’t mad for him. Far from it.’

‘Oh,’ said Kaitlin. ‘How sad. I’m in love, and I’d like everyone else to be in love, too.’

Michael grabbed her and lifted her in the first figure of the Morean Christmas dance, and she let out a squeal. ‘You’ll injure yourself – I weigh the earth!’

He smiled and kissed her and she turned and was off into the dance.

The Red Knight faced the princess. She stood in the midst of her court, with the Lady Maria at her shoulder, her face framed in a purple silk hood lined in white fur. Her overgown was edged and lined in ermine and the cloth was silk brocade with gold thread embroidery.

She seemed impossibly beautiful. Her pale skin had a gentle flush at her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

He walked into the torchlight, to the empty space in the snow in front of her, and he lay full length in the snow. His scarlet deerskin looked like a pool of blood in the torchlight and the snow was very cold. He wondered if she would kill him while he lay at her feet, but there was no avoiding this display of loyalty with twenty thousand people watching him.

Lady Maria raised her voice. ‘The Imperial princess bids you rise!’ she said.

The princess made the motion for him to rise, and he did – first to his knees, where he kissed the hem of her gown, and then to one knee, where he kissed her hand.

He left three spots of scarlet in the snow.

Her right hand was bare, and she gripped his hand hard. And then leaned down to him. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she hissed.

He was warmed by her assertion. He liked her better than he wanted to and while he didn’t believe her, he was glad she would go through the motions for him.

He returned the pressure of her hand. ‘What wasn’t you, Majesty?’ he asked. Somewhere in his secret heart he had feared her open hatred, even while his intellect had sought to understand it.

But there were no easy answers. Toby came and dusted him off, and he was handed some hot wine which he traded off with Toby while he hoped no one was looking. They were going to try and kill him. The public dancing was a perfect venue for such an attempt, and yet he had to be present.

He was also bleeding through his bandages and the blood was very cold on his skin.

He wished he had Tom Lachlan at his side.

But he had Gavin, and Gavin’s presence warmed him like a hot fire. He bowed again to the princess and turned to his brother. ‘Everyone in place?’ he asked.

‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ Gavin answered. ‘Master Mortirmir is standing by, as well.’

He was aware of the absence of Harmodius the way a man is aware of the loss of a painful tooth, and he kept visiting his palace and looking about, as if expecting an interloper. And well down in his list of priorities, he was also aware that if Harmodius had possessed the young Mortirmir, something would have to be done about it.

He marked the command post – the invisible place from which the night’s activities were being conducted. Mortirmir seemed to have a very slight stoop and wore a cynical smile, and the Red Knight knew him immediately.

I am weak enough to be glad to be rid of him at almost any price,
he thought. He sneaked a second glance at young Mortirmir, who stood with a dozen other students of the Academy and with Long Paw, who had his own contingent out there in the dark and his own orders about Master Mortirmir, if things became ugly.

He backed away from the princess and noted that his people were standing well clear of the princess’s attendants – and the fissure between them showed. Ser Alcaeus stood between his mother and Ser Gavin, like one fragile link in a damaged chain.

‘Gavin – make sure every one of ours picks one of hers and stays close. I mean it.’ He nodded. ‘Not a breath of suspicion should reach the enemy. They have to think the whole thing went awry. Or better yet, that she’s deserted them.’

Gavin’s face registered a dark anger, but he nodded assent and smiled a thin-lipped smile at Lady Maria. Before he left his brother’s side, he said, ‘You know this is all a punishment for how much I loved the court at Harndon, isn’t it? This is court life with a vengeance.’

The Red Knight shrugged. ‘Trust Alcaeus,’ he said. He backed another step into his own men and women and walked briskly to where Mortirmir stood in the snow, handing cups of hot hippocras to revellers.

The young face wore a wry expression. ‘Bleeding? My lord?’ He made a face. ‘Solstice, you know. No hermetical working does what you expect.’

The Red Knight leaned in close. ‘It’s against the law, Harmodius. And you know what law.’

Mortirmir shrugged. ‘I’m bending the rules, not breaking them. Master Mortirmir has the switch in his hand. He can dump me whenever he likes. You are bleeding. Here.’

He made a sign and said a word, and the Red Knight felt the wounds close. Again.

Long Paw leaned in over the fire. ‘My lord. Any orders?’

The Red Knight shrugged. ‘He’s out there. Do your best.’

Michael and Kaitlin whirled by him. He turned back to the princess and bowed. ‘Your Majesty, is it fitting that we join these revellers? And if so, will you do me the honour, unworthy as I am?’

She nodded. ‘Let us dance. Is it not this for which we were made?’

He took her hand and they were away.

Moreans regarded their royalty as sacred – almost literally the stuff of saints and God himself, and there was some reluctance to take the princess’s hand at first, but the horror of breaking the huge circle – a circle of ten thousand couples or more that filled the whole circuit of the Great Square – overcame the awe and, after some skirmishing, Count Darkhair put himself at the princess’s left hand and seemed perfectly willing to hold it against all comers, regardless what the figures of the dance decreed.

They circled for far longer than Albans did, and then they began a hymn – a regiment of monks and another of nuns processed out of the cathedral and the scent of incense filled the square as a hundred censors whirled sacred smoke into the still cold air. The first hymn rose from fifteen thousand throats, and even the ancient statues seemed to raise their voices in hymn to their creator.