Page 73 of The Fell Sword


  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.

  And then the dance began again. A snow squall hit – the fine-powdered snow came down hard enough to fill his eyebrows, and he laughed because it was so beautiful. The nuns and the monks exchanged volleys of song. A pair of drummers played back and forth, on horseback, and a single woman’s voice rose in a polyphonic descant above the nuns and monks like a personification of ecstasy.

  The princess’s hand tightened on his. And then she was gone into the snow, as the women formed an inner circle. Most of the other women were as plain as nuns, so that the princess seemed to burn like a star in a dark firmament.

  He wondered if she had given the order to have him killed. Gelfred had intercepted the message from Lonika two days before. But spy networks were so convoluted that the order could have originated in the palace. Certainly he had a lot of evidence proving how regularly she communicated with Andronicus by Imperial messenger.

  He had plenty of time to think about it as the great outer circle of men moved around the tighter inner circle of women.

  The hymns went on, and when he knew the words, he joined in, and sang. Despite the wound in his side and the creeping flow of blood, he was angry.

  If I live through this . . .

  If I live through this, I must deal with Andronicus, whose army is three times the size of mine. And then I must do what I can for Michael’s father and for the Queen, all the while protecting the north against Thorn and dealing, if I must, with Harmodius. If he is turning against us.

  By God, if there is a God, I’ve made so many mistakes I’m losing the thread of my plan. If I ever had a plan. It’s more like riding a wild horse than planning a campaign.

  I’m a fool. But what a ride!

  The man at his right hand broke in on his thoughts. His voice was strangely familiar and sounded clear as bell. ‘Do you believe in fate, Gabriel?’ he asked.

  The Duke’s head shot round. He recognised Master Smythe easily enough, and he grinned. ‘Haven’t we already had this chat?’ he managed.

  ‘And we will again,’ Master Smythe promised. ‘I love the way humans think about time.’

  ‘This is more help than I ever expected,’ the Duke said. ‘The food – the logistika.’

  ‘Not to mention a slight deflection of a certain crossbow bolt. From which you may assume that things are worse than you imagined.’ Master Smythe inclined his head pleasantly, and flashed a flirtatious smile at a woman in the inner circle.

  The Duke winced. ‘And I thought I was doing so well
,’ he said with a certain sarcasm.

  His partner turned his head. ‘You are, but our adversary is – beneath his arrogance and pride – very able. Are you ready to be King of Alba?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the Duke said. ‘I had planned to build myself a place here. And stay away from there. For ever.’ He shrugged and danced a few steps, turned back towards the dragon and nodded to the music. ‘As you must already know.’

  ‘But you’ll throw all that over to rescue Michael’s father and the Queen?’ Smythe asked.

  The Duke set his face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even if it means you must go sword to sword with your father?’

  The Duke danced a few steps. ‘Don’t you find it tiresome to ask questions to which you already know all the answers?’

  Master Smythe’s dancing was a little too graceful. But he nodded. ‘Free will generally trumps foreknowledge,’ he said.

  The Duke flashed a smile as the chorus to a hymn burst from the monks and nuns. ‘That is, I think, the best news I’ve ever heard. I hope you tell the truth.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said the dragon. ‘Andronicus must go, before Thorn joins hands with Aeskepiles.’

  ‘I agree,’ the Duke said.

  The dance gathered speed. ‘Do you know that everywhere that good men live – and irks and other creatures – they perform this dance at the winter and the summer solstice? Whatever they believe, whatever god they worship, this is the night when the walls are down, and anything may happen?’

  ‘So my mother always said,’ the Duke muttered.

  ‘Do you know that there is an infinity of spheres? Of which this one is but one?’ Master Smythe asked.

  ‘I try not to think about it,’ the Duke said.

  ‘I will leave you in a few moments. Before I do: the Queen’s tournament. You know of it?’

  The Red Knight nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, in case a being with godlike powers couldn’t see in the torchlit darkness. Off to his left, the princess was a golden sun of splendour.

  ‘It is a node. So many lines come together there that I cannot see past it, or what is immediately around it. Thorn and his master have their own plans and I cannot see them.’ Master Smythe stopped dancing. ‘There,’ he said, with uncharacteristic satisfaction. ‘Time and place. And undetected. My solstice gift to you.’

  ‘Would you tell me if this tournament ends with my death?’ the Duke asked.

  The dragon paused for a moment. ‘It may,’ he said. ‘Which I would regret. Even to tell you that much is to trespass beyond the borders of the game.’ Master Smythe shrugged. ‘To be fair, I missed your assassin until he struck. By the way, he’s quite close now, and I am not allowed to take action. You seem to understand all this well enough.’

  The Red Knight nodded. ‘I was born to it,’ he said with unfeigned bitterness.

  ‘I know,’ said the Wyrm of Erch. He flexed his hands. ‘It is so long since I took a direct part in the affairs of men,’ he said wistfully. ‘What if it proves addictive?’

  ‘Sod off,’ said the Red Knight, but he said it very, very quietly.

  The men were closing in on the women, and another snow shower hit them – a flurry of flakes all around him, so that, despite the hands on his right and left, he seemed all alone. The snow muffled sound, as well.

  He reached out a hand for the princess, and felt a warm hand in his. But to his utter shock – and he was not a man easily surprised – he took the Queen’s hand instead.

  She paused as he raised her hand. ‘You!’ she said.

  They turned as the music – a polyphony of musics – rose around them, and the snow fell harder. Her hand was light as air. She was obviously pregnant, but she danced with angelic grace. He smiled, and she smiled too.

  ‘Have you come to see my husband?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. And he moved on, relinquishing her with a backward glance that met her serene smile over her shoulder.

  He turned his head, raising his hand for his next partner, and there was Amicia. He was a beat too late, and she was biting her lip in annoyance, lost in the music, a nun who loved to dance.

  Their eyes met. Hers widened, and she caught her breath.

  The ring on her finger sparkled.

  ‘You are wounded,’ she said. ‘Is it you who has been drawing from me all day?’ She smiled like the rising of a summer sun and he was flooded with warmth.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he turned, her hand in his. She wore the plainest brown overgown with a blue kirtle under it – on her shoulder was the eight-pointed star of her order.

  ‘Oh!’ she said in delight. ‘My handkerchief!’

  He opened his mouth, and she danced away into the snow.

  His third partner was his mother.

  She took his hand and took a graceful, gliding step. ‘The walls are truly down tonight,’ she said.

  He grunted, and looked back over his shoulder.

  She laughed. ‘You’ll have her in the end, I have no doubt,’ she said. ‘Look at you! The very lord of this world.’ She took another pavane step and laughed. ‘You are everything I hoped you would be, Gabriel.’

  And having sliced him with the razor of her words, she stepped away into the snow.

  He might have sagged, but Amicia’s touch still burned on his hand, and he took the next three steps the way a trained swordsman will keep fighting when hurt.

  Another queen took his hand – not one he knew, but a slight figure in white, embroidered in gold with red berries with her pale hair piled atop her head – a Snow Queen.

  ‘You must be the Red Knight,’ she said. ‘Ah! We have done it. All the chains are joined this night.’ She smiled at him, and whirled in a spray of snow, doubling to the time of the music. ‘May light triumph over dark,’ Tamsin said, and turned away. ‘Let this be a dagger in his black heart!’

  He turned outside her and stepped away, wondering and dreading who might emerge next from the snow, but the hand that grasped his was a familiar one, and he found himself turning with Sauce. She grinned. ‘Surprised?’ she asked. ‘I never know which circle I should be—’ As she spoke, her face changed, and she stepped past him and threw him to the ground as if they had been wrestling, not dancing. It was all done in time to the music and, surprised, he fell hard.

  The assassin was frustrated at the snow and doubly frustrated at the attentiveness of the soldiers, who were, indeed, everywhere in the crowd. After two passes that didn’t bring him close enough to his target, he knew that his one chance would be to press straight in. The hymn told him where the dancers ought to be – in a few measures, the men would leave their fifth female partner and come out to the outer circle and turn again with the men.

  If he wormed to the edge of the non-dancing crowd, he’d have to be lucky – but if he was, he’d have his shot at arm’s length or less. He paused, counted the beats, and burrowed past a clump of goodwives like a mole in the dirt.

  But his basket and his relative movement drew the attention of a clump of mercenary archers. He saw them move – saw the change of the glint of their helmets.

  If he turned away now, he’d never have another chance.

  He pushed harder.

  Long Paw saw the man with the basket at the same time as Ser Gavin, and the two moved into the crowd like mastiffs, Ser Gavin leaving Lady Maria standing alone and breaking the circle while Long Paw, half a bowshot away, had the harder journey through a thousand people.

  There was a cracking sound, and the snowbound sky was lit by a bolt of lightning. And a sudden play of colours, like a localised aurora.

  Morgan Mortirmir grabbed his head as if he’d taken a blow. Then, after a moment’s disorientation, he turned on his heel and ran towards the Megas Ducas, dancing with Ser Alison.

  The crack of thunder frightened people and they shrank aside. And left a path for the assassin, who strode along the alley so created as if it had been ordained since the dawn of time.

  But it was too easy, and he w
as ahead of his time – the Megas Ducas was still turning with a woman, fifteen paces away through the snow.

  The assassin threw caution to the winds and burst through the cordon around the dancers and ran for the Duke.

  The woman with whom he was dancing saw him and seemed to nod, turning her partner even as the assassin stripped the mitten off his right hand, reached back and caught the handle of his crossbow. He ran at the Duke.

  She put her leg behind the Duke’s in time to the music.

  He was three paces away and it was too late for everyone as he raised his bow and then—

  She threw the Duke to the ground.

  A great gout of fire struck the assassin’s ward, making him stumble.

  He whirled and shot his attacker, and the bolt went clean through the young man’s hermetical defence and blew him from his feet.

  The woman produced a short sword from her skirts and cut at him.

  He caught the blow on the arm guard under his peasant tunic and grappled her, expecting an easy conquest and instead getting a knee in his groin and a turn of his own elbow, but he had armour under his clothes and she was hampered by skirts and after a flurry of blows he kicked her – hard enough to snap her knee, but the same petticoats that had saved him now deflected some of his blow.

  She fell all the same.

  He hit her in the head with his spent crossbow and ran.

  He passed the princess, gaping open-mouthed, and then he was in among the statues in the centre of the square.

  He stripped the peasant smock over his head, and under it he had the armour and scarlet surcoat of a mercenary archer, complete with sword and buckler. He ran, altered direction by ninety degrees and ran harder, due south, passing through a clump of peasant women and vanishing into the crowd.

  Long Paw was fooled, but only for as long as it took him to look at the peasant smock. Then he made a clicking sound with his tongue and followed the tracks through the new snow. He didn’t need the peasant women to tell him where the man had gone, and he only paused for three strides to scan the crowd. Even in the flickering torchlight, he could follow the helmet – the one helmet headed away from the circle of dancers.