Tyrant's Throne

Book 4: The Greatcoats

by Sebastien de Castell, Sebastien de Castell

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Fantasy; General Fiction

Synopsis

After years of struggle and sacrifice, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats, is on the brink of fulfilling his dead king's dream: Aline, the king's daughter, is about to take the throne and restore the rule of law once and for all.

But for the Greatcoats, nothing is ever that simple. In the neighboring country of Avares, an enigmatic new warlord is uniting the barbarian armies that have long plagued Tristia's borders—and even worse, he is rumored to have a new ally: Trin, who's twice tried to kill Aline to claim the throne of Tristia for herself. With the armies of Avares at her back, led by a bloodthirsty warrior, she'll be unstoppable.

Falcio, Kest, and Brasti race north to stop her, but in those cold and treacherous climes they discover something altogether different, and far more dangerous: a new player is planning to take the throne of Tristia, and with a sense of dread the three friends realize that the Greatcoats, for all their skill, may not be able to stop him.

Release date: April 20, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 512

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

The Wedding Play

A trial is a performance, no different than a stage play or a ­wedding. The script may be dramatic or dull, the players captivating or hesitant, the spectators enraptured or bored, but by the time the curtain falls, everyone gets up to leave knowing that the conclusion was never really in doubt. The trick, of course, is figuring out the ending before it’s too late.

*

‘I don’t suppose any of you gutless rat-faced canker-blossoms would like to surrender?’ The young woman in the travel-worn leather coat was armed with nothing but a foul tongue and a broken cutlass that she swung in wide, desperate arcs as more than a dozen guardsmen closed in on her. Step by step they drove her back with the points of their castle-forged swords, until she was forced to duck behind the yardarm of the main mast.

‘We can’t see!’ a nobleman called out from his seat at one of the tables set at the rear of the wedding barge’s vast deck.

‘This isn’t a play, you fools!’ she shouted back. ‘I’m a Greatcoat! A Magister of Tristia, here to enforce a lawful verdict – and just to be quite clear, these swords being waved at me? They’re not props – these men are going to kill me!’

‘She doesn’t look like a proper Greatcoat to me,’ Lady Rochlan observed to the man in livery refilling her wine goblet. ‘Her coat is far too shabby – and that hair! Honestly, it looks as if she cuts it herself.’

‘And without the benefit of scissors, it would appear, my Lady,’ the servant added.

Lady Rochlan smiled, then asked, ‘Are you quite all right, young man? You look a trifle seasick.’

‘Quite all right, I assure you, my Lady. I merely . . . Pardon me.’

The servant ran to the back of the barge just in time to vomit over the side and into the calm river waters below, drawing chuckles from nearby guests who wondered aloud how anyone could be seasick without even being at sea.

Still backing away from her pursuers, the Greatcoat growled in frustration. ‘Step aside!’ she commanded the guardsmen. ‘By the laws set forth by King Paelis and reconsecrated by his heir, Aline the First, withdraw, or face me one by one in the duelling circle where I’ll gladly teach you the first rule of the sword.’ The threatening tone she had adopted was sadly undermined both by her obvious youth and by the way her blade trembled in her hand.

The guardsmen maintained their slow, patient approach, and even the seasick servant shuffling behind them in search of more wine for the guests could sense their excitement. The chance to kill a Greatcoat, to be forever remembered as one of those few who’d brought one of the legendary sword-wielding magistrates to a bloody end? That was enough to make any man reckless. But these were Guardsmen of the March of Barsat, disciplined soldiers one and all, and so they awaited their master’s order to strike with the forbearance of Saints.

A soft laugh broke through the tension. Evidalle, Margrave of Barsat, began speaking in tones so light they might have been the opening notes of a love song. ‘I believe, my Lady Greatcoat – how does one address a female magistrate, anyway? “Mistress Greatcoat”? Or perhaps “Madam Greatcoat”?’

She shook back a lock of reddish-brown hair that was threatening to fall into her eyes. ‘My name is Chalmers, also called the King’s Question.’

‘Chalmers? Odd name for a girl.’ Evidalle furrowed his smooth brow. ‘And did Paelis really refer to you as “the King’s Question”? I wonder, was his query perhaps, “If I were to dress a homely waif in man’s clothes and hand her a rusted blade, would she really be any worse than the rest of my tatter-cloaks?”’ The Margrave laughed heartily at his own joke. Like a pebble dropped in the middle of a pool, his mirth spread in waves, first to the guardsmen encircling the Greatcoat and then beyond, to the guests in their finery seated at their white and gold tables beneath the long ribbons of silver silk hung from the masts to celebrate the Margrave’s nuptials.

As if on cue, a beautiful Bardatti at the very front of the barge struck an opening chord on her guitar and led the three violinists beside her into a jaunty tune fit for the occasion. The guests – Lords, Daminas, Viscounts and other minor nobles, smiled and whispered conspiratorially to their companions as they luxuriated in the shade offered by the stiff white parasols held at careful angles against the afternoon sun by impeccably turned-out servants. Each noble had brought a Knight from their personal guard, both for protection and decoration, their livery proudly displaying their house colours and sigils as they stood at attention, stiff and silent as statues. Now even they began to laugh at the scene playing out before them.

The attending clerics, instantly recognisable by the robes of red or green or pale blue they wore to mark whichever God had, in theory at least, chosen them, smiled knowingly to each other – all save one, standing inconspicuously behind the others, his arms folded within his sleeves, wearing the grey rough-spun robes of an unchosen monk.

Only the servants kept their silence as they scurried between nobles and their Knights to bring plates of roast pig and poultry prepared by a small army of cooks working spits dripping hissing grease onto the flames below. One of the cooks’ assistants, apparently oblivious to the anxiety of his fellows, sliced morsels off the chickens turning on one of the spits and popped them into his mouth as he watched the events unfolding.

As the laughter settled down, the guardsmen’s eyes returned to the Greatcoat, anticipating the signal to strike – but the Margrave’s performance was only just beginning. ‘I believe, my dear “King’s Question”, that your unfortunate appellation may be to blame for your current predicament. You see, when the High Cleric of Baern asks whether the Gods or Saints have any cause to bar a marriage, it’s actually considered quite impolite to speak up.’

‘The Gods are dead,’ Chalmers said, ‘and so are the Saints, from what I’ve heard, and this wedding of yours is nothing more than a sham.’ She gestured at Lady Cestina, who stood silently by Evidalle, her eyes downcast, as they had been throughout the ceremony. ‘You had her true husband killed so you could marry her, and even now your soldiers hold her mother and father, beaten and bloody, prisoners in their own keep!’

The specificity of the accusations drew uncomfortable titters from the guests, some of whom were no longer entirely certain that what was taking place was the promised wedding play that usually accompanied a nobleman’s nuptials.

‘You forgot her sister, Mareina,’ Evidalle said. ‘Clever girl – she’s actually quite pretty, too. I’d considered her as an alternative to Lady Cestina but then she came at me with a knife, so . . . well, you know how that goes.’

‘She wastes away in a cage beneath the deck of this very barge, you bastard,’ the Greatcoat said. ‘You’re forcing Lady Cestina into marriage by threatening her own sister’s life!’

‘I am?’ Evidalle put on a show of shock and confusion as he turned and surveyed his guests. ‘You must all think me a truly wretched creature.’ He stepped gracefully to where the Lady Cestina was trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid notice and extended a well-manicured hand towards her. ‘My Lady? Is there any truth to this terrible accusation? Can it be possible that you do not wish to marry me?’

Lady Cestina, who might otherwise have been quite beautiful had her face not been a picture of fear, with smudged blue maschiera paints running from her eyes down to her chin, her long blonde hair wet where it stuck to her cheeks, accepted the Margrave’s hand.

‘No, my Lord,’ she whispered, ‘the accusations are false. I wish nothing more than to be your wife.’

‘You see?’ Evidalle said, turning back to the Greatcoat as if expecting her to agree that the matter had been amicably resolved. When she glared at him instead, he nodded sagely. ‘Ah, but of course the lovely Cestina might simply be saying this out of fear for her sister’s wellbeing, no?’ He turned back to his bride. ‘My dear, would you kiss me?’

‘Of . . . of course, my Lord.’ Lady Cestina leaned in towards the Margrave and kissed him. Everyone could see her lips were trembling.

Evidalle shook his head in mock dismay. ‘That won’t do at all, my darling. I fear our Lady Greatcoat will think you are simply pretending to love me – you must do better.’

The Lady Cestina looked around anxiously before kissing Evidalle again, this time pressing her lips hard against his, keeping them there a long time.

‘Better,’ Evidalle said, pulling away to smile at the audience, who gave a smattering of applause. He held up a hand to quiet them. ‘I think we can improve on it, though.’ His gaze returned to Cestina. ‘This time, use your tongue,’ he ordered, then asked sweetly, ‘Would you like that?’

The fear was joined by humiliation playing across her face. Her eyes were those of a rabbit caught in a trap. ‘Yes, my Lord . . . I would . . .’ Tentatively, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue to his lips.

Evidalle grinned and leaned back a bit, making her reach for him, to the ribald laughter of the crowd. After a moment he opened his mouth to receive her tongue.

‘Enough!’ the Greatcoat shouted. ‘Leave her be, damn you!’

Evidalle kept the peculiar kiss going a while longer before pulling away. ‘Enough?’ he asked the Greatcoat. ‘You do realise she’s going to be my wife, don’t you? We’ll soon be doing a great deal more than kissing. But perhaps you’re right . . .’

He turned back to the wedding guests. ‘My Lords and Ladies, has this demonstration of our love been enough for you, or do you require more evidence?’

For a moment the guests looked at each other in confusion, unsure of what response was expected. Evidalle stared at them and finally someone shouted, ‘Er . . . more—?’

At the Margrave’s approving nod this soon grew into a rousing chant, ‘Give us more! Give us more!’

The clerics stood placid and unmoving, the hems of their robes flapping in the breeze – all but the monk at the back, who had his eyes fixed on the guardsmen; he appeared to be examining each one in turn. The servants were doing their best to feign ignorance of what was going on, save one refilling a flagon of wine, who paused to scowl at the cook’s assistant who had stopped turning the spit but was still slicing pieces of chicken for himself.

The chanting grew in volume. ‘Give us more! Give us more!’

Evidalle gazed lovingly into his young bride’s eyes. ‘It seems our guests demand a grander gesture from us, Lady Cestina. We must provide them with a more . . . ah, complete demonstration of our love.’

The young woman’s eyes went wide as she finally worked out what was to come. Her lips parted and a single word came out, silent as a whisper to all but those nearby. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please—’

Margrave Evidalle laughed. ‘You see? She’s begging for it!’ He turned back to her. ‘Take off your dress.’

‘Please, no, not here,’ the Lady said, even as her hands, as though no longer under her control, began to undo the laces fastening the bodice of her wedding gown. ‘Please,’ she said again, each repetition carrying more trepidation, more desperation.

The curve of Evidalle’s lips remained the same, yet his smile grew dark, ugly, his eyes more intense. ‘Faster,’ he said, a hand already reaching out for her.

‘Touch her even once,’ Chalmers warned, her voice thick with rage, ‘and I swear by Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears, those tits will be the last thing your fingers ever feel.’

‘Isn’t Saint Zaghev one of the dead ones?’ Evidalle asked, his expression turning from desire to mild annoyance. ‘I doubt he’ll do you much good now.’

The Greatcoat gave out a shout and swung her broken cutlass at the leg of the guardsman closest to her. The tip of the lightly curved blade was missing but the jagged end remained sharp enough that it gashed the man’s thigh, sending him tumbling onto his backside. Chalmers had already brought her blade back up in front of her and was swinging it wildly at the faces of the men nearest her, forcing them back. For a brief moment it almost looked like the young woman’s ferocity might break their line – until a long-limbed guard reached over her and struck the back of her head with the pommel of his sword. Two other guardsmen grabbed her arms and held on tight, rendering her as helpless as the woman she’d come to save.

The man whose leg Chalmers had cut got back on his feet, ripped the blade from her hand and tossed it to the deck. He drew his own thin-bladed dagger and pressed it against her throat.

The Margrave gave a small cough and the guard froze. He dropped to his knees immediately. ‘Forgive me, my Lord. I was—’

‘It’s perfectly understandable,’ Evidalle said, waving him away. ‘At times like these one can sympathise with the overwhelming desire for immediate . . . gratification.’ Evidalle signalled to the musicians to resume their tune as he took over the unlacing of Lady Cestina’s gown.

Chalmers howled in frustration as she struggled in vain to pull free from her captors. The man she’d injured used this as an excuse to strike her across the face, but to her credit, the Greatcoat didn’t beg or plead or moan, but shouted, ‘Kill me then, you dogs, but know that a reckoning comes to Tristia. Retribution rides on a fast horse and wields a sharp blade. So go ahead, you foul-breathed bastards, slit my throat if you dare.’

Evidalle sighed. ‘Are you just about done, Lady Greatcoat?’ He removed his fingers from the laces on the front of Lady Cestina’s wedding dress. ‘Forgive me, my love, but I fear that the Greatcoat’s caterwauling is making me lose my enthusiasm for our little ­performance.’

Her reply was oddly plaintive. ‘You mustn’t stop now, my dear.’

All eyes turned to stare in surprise at the young bride. Beneath the tears and smudged maschiera paints, Lady Cestina’s expression had changed; the mask of fear and sorrow had been replaced by what looked suspiciously like a self-satisfied grin. Eyes bright with mischief, she added, ‘We’re just getting to the best part.’

Very slowly, like a dancer taking her first few steps onto the stage, Lady Cestina walked over and extended a hand to caress the chin of her deeply confused would-be rescuer.

‘My valiant Greatcoat, I must apologise. You see, I’m afraid this really is a wedding play . . . only you were never meant to perform the part of the daring hero. You’re here to play the villain.’

CHAPTER TWO

The Reluctant Jury

‘This man had your husband killed!’ Chalmers cried out, still straining against the grip of the guardsmen holding her. ‘His troops surround your parents’ keep even as your sister languishes in a cage below this very deck. Would you betray your own family for—?’

Lady Cestina gripped the Greatcoat’s jaw with her hand, pressing her fingernails into the flesh. ‘My family betrayed me – they refused to even listen to my plans; instead they fawn and cower before that old crone Duchess Ossia! The bitch trades away the future of our Duchy to that foolish child in Aramor – but she will never be crowned Queen, not as long as those of us with noble breeding stand up for our freedoms.’

Evidalle took this as his cue to address the assembled nobles. ‘Lords and Daminas, Viscounts and Viscountesses, we have brought you here not only to witness our wedding, but to unite with us in a far greater purpose.’

The scraping of chair legs against the polished oak deck drew attention to a man of middle years with streaks of grey in his dark hair rising to his feet. ‘You intend to take Duchess Ossia’s throne for yourself?’

‘I intend something far grander than that, Lord Braimond. I would see us put an end to the reign of the Dukes once and for all!’

The musicians stopped playing as astonishment spread across the wedding barge, the guests erupting in furious whispers.

‘Hear me out,’ Evidalle said, raising his hands for quiet. ‘We have a chance, right now, while those who have held us beneath their thumb for too long struggle to restore order to the country. Castle Aramor is in ruins, the Dukes of Hervor, Orison and Luth are dead, their thrones sitting empty – so let us ensure they remain so. Let us become once and for all masters of our own domains, free from interference by the Crown, free from the petty, intrusive demands of weak and ageing Dukes who understand nothing of our lives and needs.’ He strode over to where his guards held Chalmers and wrapped a hand around her neck. ‘And above all, free from the tyranny of those who would seek to impose their laws on our lands.’

Lord Braimond shook his head in disbelief. ‘Have you lost your mind? You would set us at war with the Greatcoats: the very men and women who not three months ago fought and killed a God!’

‘Theatrics,’ Evidalle countered, his eyes still on Chalmers. ‘Stories. The Trattari are flesh and blood, just like this one. The Bardatti turn their petty exploits into legends to instil fear in us – well, we too can turn such tales to our benefit. I spread the story of a delicately nurtured girl, stripped of her rights and soon to be ravaged by the big bad nobleman, and sure enough, one of the Trattari comes running right into my little trap.’

Lady Rochlan set down her wine goblet and rose from her chair, signalling with a shake of her head for her Knight to remain where he was. ‘What purpose has this ploy of yours served, Evidalle? You cannot expect us to believe that this rather shabby Greatcoat you have captured was your intended prize.’

‘My venture was a fishing expedition, I admit,’ Evidalle said, keeping his hand around Chalmers’ neck. ‘I would have preferred to have reeled in a nice big trout, perhaps even their so-called First Cantor, or the one who once claimed to be the Saint of Swords – but see how easily my lure has taken this little catfish? She will do just fine for a start.’

Chalmers, struggling to speak, wheezed, ‘The start of what?’

The Margrave leaned in closer. ‘War, my little minnow. When word of what I have begun here spreads, nobles across the country will set their own traps. The would-be Queen and her puppet Dukes won’t be able to protect their precious Greatcoats, and they will soon see that the only laws we will abide on our lands are the ones we choose for ourselves.’

He turned his gaze back to his guests. ‘Who will join me in the fight to free our country? Who will be the first to drive their dagger into the Trattari’s heart before we send her body floating along the river that it may find its way to Duchess Ossia’s doorstep?’

‘You—’ Chalmers started coughing.

Evidalle lightened his grip. ‘What’s that?’

‘You forgot something,’ Chalmers spat, ‘you repulsive man-child – you damned, damnable dung-eating worm—’

Several of the guardsmen raised their weapons to strike, but the Margrave shook his head and they stayed their hands. The smile he gave Chalmers was almost generous. ‘Go on, then. You’re bordering on poetry now. What final devastating curse would you utter for me?’

Chalmers tried to draw breath, but Evidalle had begun squeezing again.

‘The Greatcoats are coming.’

Evidalle stared at Chalmers – who looked surprised herself, for she was too busy being choked to have spoken. The Margrave spun around and started peering into the crowd of faces.

‘Show yourself,’ he demanded. ‘Who dares to say those words in my presence?’

No one answered. No one moved.

The Greatcoats are coming.

The words hung in the air like an incantation meant to conjure up swordsmen from thin air. The guards and guests had started looking around themselves, as if at any moment the sounds of horses’ hooves might echo along the wedding barge’s highly polished oak planking. The Knights kept their hands on the hilts of their swords, awaiting an invasion that never came.

Finally Evidalle broke the silence with a dismissive snort. ‘By the Saints dead and living, just look at all of you! Does the mere mention of their names steal the air from your lungs? Greatcoats? You fear a paltry few disgraced magistrates who march to the tune of the bastard child of a dead King?’

‘It’s not only the Greatcoats,’ Lady Rochlan pointed out. ‘Many of us have had to deal with their juries even after the magistrates themselves have left our lands. You play a dangerous game, Margrave.’

With his free hand, Evidalle grabbed at the front of Chalmers’ coat and tore a button free. ‘Is this what concerns you? These little symbols of their office?’ He tossed it on the deck and watched it roll away. ‘Come then, let us see who picks up the coin and swears themselves to the Trattari’s cause. Let us see what kind of jury she will find here.’

One by one, Evidalle tore off the remaining buttons, throwing them to the deck as the wedding guests watched in uncomfortable silence. He was about to throw the last button when he paused to look at it, then let go of the girl so that he could peel away the leather shell that covered the gold coin underneath: the payment every juror would take in exchange for their vow to uphold a verdict.

When nothing came away, Evidalle stared at the young woman’s coat. ‘This isn’t even a true coat of office!’

Chalmers looked stricken, but her voice remained defiant. ‘I may not have the clothes, you bastard, but I am as much a Greatcoat as any of you have ever known.’ She turned her gaze to the wedding guests. ‘I have come to enforce a lawful verdict against this man. Those few among you who still remember a time when your heart knew honour and duty are hereby summoned to serve as my jurors.’

Evidalle’s fury wiped out any trace of refinement as he screamed, ‘You stupid child, you’ve wasted my time! All my efforts, for nothing!’ He threw away the remaining button and it hit the seasick servant who had been doing his best to keep the guests’ goblets filled with wine.

The Margrave caught sight of the cleric in grey robes standing a few yards away. ‘You, cleric, what number is most sacred to the Gods?’

The hooded monk tilted his head slightly. ‘That’s . . . an excellent question. One could argue that six is the number most beloved of the Gods, for that is how many we recognise in Tristia. On the other hand, since by all accounts they’re now dead, it’s hard to say whether—’

‘Just give me a number, damn you! A bigger one.’

The cleric paused. ‘Twelve – if for no other reason tha—’

‘Fine.’ Evidalle turned to his guardsmen. ‘Release her.’

Chalmers immediately reached down to grab her weapon from the deck, but one of the guards kicked her in the arse and she fell to her hands and knees.

Evidalle turned to the audience, the smile returning to his face. ‘Well, my Lords and Ladies? The Trattari needs twelve jurors. Who among you will take up her cause? Who will—?’

A rustle of cloth nearby caught the attention of both the guards and the Margrave. The monk in grey was kneeling to pick up one of the buttons from the ground.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Evidalle asked.

‘Taking my payment,’ the monk replied, carefully examining the plain round piece of leather-covered wood as he held it up to the sun. ‘I’ll serve on her jury.’

One of the clerics in green, a servant of the dead God Coin, stepped forward and grabbed the monk by the front of his robes. ‘What heresy is this?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you, that you would dare risk the wrath of the Gods?’

The monk in grey shrugged. ‘Alas, I’ve never had much use for religion, your Holiness.’ He pocketed the button and then placed his hand on the cleric’s wrist and gently but firmly removed it. ‘However, if any deity wishes to register a formal complaint, they may meet me in the duelling circle at their convenience. As it happens, I’ve already seen at least one God die that way.’

The cleric in green drew away in disgust. ‘You’re no monk, to speak such blasphemy.’

‘I confess, you are correct, Venerati.’ The monk raised both arms above his head and his sleeves slid down, revealing that he was missing his right hand. With his left he tore off the robes, uncovering the long leather coat beneath and the shield strapped to his back. As he walked past the shocked guards to stand with Chalmers, he said, ‘My name is Kest Murrowson, a magistrate of the Greatcoats.’ He paused for effect, before adding unnecessarily, ‘And I am the Queen’s Shield.’

The guards began to close in on the two Greatcoats.

‘Thanks for the support,’ Chalmers said. ‘Though it would have been more helpful if you’d brought, you know, a sword or something.’

Kest removed the shield from his back and slipped it onto his arm. ‘I do all right with this.’

Lady Rochlan strode forward. ‘You see now, Margrave Evidalle? Already your arrogant scheme has put all of our lives in danger.’ To Kest she added, ‘I have no part in this, Trattari. I am loyal to the Duchess Ossia.’

Evidalle’s face grew ugly at this first tentative hint of rebellion. ‘You stupid cow – you think this one man changes anything? You think the Greatcoats will save any of you from my wrath?’ He reached to grab at her, only to scream with such anguish that the seabirds went fleeing from the topmast.

The Margrave stared down in horror at the arrow sprouting from his hand.

‘I believe this Chalmers person did, in fact, warn you about what would happen if those greedy fingers of yours went places they didn’t belong,’ said the cook’s assistant. In his left hand was a short bow made of pale yellow wood. His right reached down to pick up the remainder of a roast chicken.

‘You know, they have plenty of poultry at Aramor,’ Kest said.

One of the guardsmen strode over to the cook’s assistant. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Just a minute,’ the assistant replied. ‘Kest, chickens in the south just taste better. You know that. Besides, the new royal chef over-spices everything.’ He turned his attention back to the guardsman and tossed him the carcase of the chicken before wiping his hand on his shirt and absently pulling another arrow out from behind the spit. ‘To answer your question, friend, my name is Brasti Goodbow, and I am the Queen’s Jest.’

‘Treason!’ Evidalle squeaked, his voice breaking. As a squat man carrying a healer’s silver case started making his way towards the Margrave, several clerics fell in close behind, all muttering prayers to their various Gods. Evidalle’s eyes went to the guardsmen. ‘Kill them, you fools,’ he commanded. ‘There are only two real Greatcoats to deal with—’

‘About that,’ Kest said. He picked up another of the buttons and tossed it over the heads of the wedding party towards the back of the ship. The eyes of the assembled guests followed its trajectory until a hand reached up and snatched the button from the air.

Shocked gasps erupted from the crowd, who’d all risen from their seats to see who had dared to catch it.

I stuck the button in the pocket of my livery and returned to refilling Lady Rochlan’s wine before setting the flagon down on the table beside her, being careful to prevent its contents spilling on her fine white feather-trimmed dress. She’d been polite to me all afternoon, despite thinking me a servant, and besides, the wine looked like a decent claret and there was a reasonable chance I’d soon be thirsty. Also, I was still feeling a bit seasick. ‘Pardon me, my Lady,’ I said, and reached past her leg to where one of my rapiers was strapped under the table.

She put a hand on my arm. ‘There are far too many of them, you silly fool. You’ll only die here if you try to fight.’

I patted her hand before removing it, oddly touched by her concern, though I wasn’t entirely sure that she’d figured out who I was; maybe she simply didn’t want to lose a reasonably competent servant.

I withdrew my blade and leaped onto the table, knocking over a full plate of duck – but not spilling the claret and, most importantly, not falling on my arse.

Evidalle grimaced in pain as the healer poured a dark, viscous fluid around the spot where the arrow still pierced his hand. ‘Who in all the hells are you?’ he asked.

I smiled. ‘My name, your Lordship, is Falcio val Mond.’ My throat felt a bit dry, a product of having to maintain a servant’s silence all day, so I reached down and took a swig from the wine – and I was right, it was an excellent vintage – before I added, ‘I am the First Cantor of the Greatcoats, also called the King’s Heart. You might not know it yet, Margrave Evidalle, but you are having a very bad day.’

CHAPTER THREE

Running the Tables

There’s a trick to fighting on the deck of a ship. I don’t know what it is, but I fully intend to find out one day. I imagine it requires not being seasick whilst trying to evade the attacks of a rather large group of enemy guards and nobles – oh, and an enraged bride.

‘Take them!’ the lead guardsman shouted. A gold stripe around the collar of his black and yellow livery marked him as either their captain or perhaps just the most stylish dresser among them. His voice wasn’t especially commanding, but