The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (30 page)

The word “afraid” was fraught with peril for a Galle. De Rohan flushed.

“It would be better if he did not reach the King,” de Rohan said.

De Vrailly shrugged. “Better for you, perhaps,” he said.

He motioned at the soldiers at the doors. The chamber was opened, and Ser Gerald Random and Mistress Anne Bates announced. They walked—fearlessly, or so they appeared—down the long silk carpet to the throne, where they bowed.

The King sat alone. Even the Queen’s throne had been removed.

“Ser Gerald,” the King said. He looked tired, and sad. “What is this I hear, that you bore arms against me today?”

Ser Gerald shook his head. “It’s not my place to disagree with your grace,” he said. “But I would never take up arms against my sovereign.”

“That’s what I told de Rohan. But he says…” the King said.

De Rohan stepped forward out of the ranks of courtiers. Most of the courtiers were nobles of the southern Albin—the men and women who lived in Harndon. But almost a third of the men present wore the tighter, brighter fashions that marked them as Galles.

“I say you are a traitor,” de Rohan said.

Random frowned. “It’s difficult for me to understand you, sir. Your accent is too thick.”

A few brave souls tittered. In fact, de Rohan had a scarcely noticeable accent unless he was flustered.

“Be silent!” de Rohan spat.

Ser Gerald bowed. “I cannot remain silent while you slander me, my lord. And I am here, I think, to speak, not to be silent.”

De Rohan pointed at Random. “He has coached the go-between—the girl who takes the notes to the Queen’s lovers.” De Rohan looked apologetically at the King. “I would rather say no more in public. It is too—disgraceful.”

Random shook his head. “What a foolish accusation. My lord, I do not even live in the palace.”

Mistress Anne curtsied. “Your grace, I beg leave to speak.”

The King waved a hand. “Please.”

“Your grace, I believe we were invited here to speak to your grace, and not to this foreign lord.” She managed half a smile. “Your grace, I’m a
woman of business, not a courtier. If this were a business meeting, I would say that this man is trying to keep us from speaking our piece.”

The King looked at de Rohan. Then back at Mistress Anne.

“Speak, and be assured of my patience,” he said.

She curtsied again. “Your grace. The people of the city were attacked without provocation by the men-at-arms these Galles brought into our midst. Men and women of worth have been killed—”

“Men of worth?” de Rohan asked, his sneer palpable. “Some beggars?”

“My father-in-law,” Ser Gerald said.

“My nephew,” Mistress Anne said.

The silence was as palpable as the sneer had been.

“They looted and stole and raped, and when we called out the watch, they were beaten.” Mistress Anne paused. “And when we called for the Trained Band, they
killed the captain
.”

“Lies,” de Rohan said.

De Vrailly shrugged. “In Galle—” he began.

“You are not in Galle!” Mistress Anne snapped.

“No one was fighting
against the King
,” Ser Gerald said carefully. “We were protecting our homes. From thieves and murderers.”

“A fine tale of lies,” de Rohan said. “You and your rebels massacred our people. You killed our servants—unarmed boys and girls.”

The King looked at Ser Gerald.

He looked down. Then he looked up. “After they killed men of the Trained Band, we broke them. And we chased them, and as God is my judge, we were as bad as they.”

The King winced. “Damn,” he said. “Do you want a civil war, Random? Killing Galles in our streets—is that the rule of law?”

Stung, Ser Gerald stepped back. “Christ on the cross, your grace! They killed upwards of a hundred of your
citizens.
And in the eyes of many people,
your grace
, the Galles are coming to represent
you.
”

“Ah,” said de Rohan. He pointed at Ser Gerald. “Ah—now we see it.”

“Represent me how?” the King asked carefully.

“Your grace, you brought them here. You should send them away.” Ser Gerald set his foot and leaned on his cane. His missing foot was troubling him.

Very carefully, de Rohan said, “And what of the Queen?”

Ser Gerald drew a breath. He looked at Mistress Anne.

Mistress Anne curtsied again. “Your grace, we’re here to speak to you. Not this creature.”

The King exploded in impatience. “As God is my witness, woman! This man is not a ‘creature’ but a lord of Galle and one of my ministers and you will treat him with respect.”

Mistress Anne stepped back a pace.

De Rohan allowed himself a small smile. “What of the Queen, Master Random?”

Random looked at de Rohan. “Your grace, could you see to it that this Lord of Galle uses my proper title?”

De Rohan shrugged. “Merely an oversight, Ser.”

Random met his eye. “Ser Gerald.”

De Rohan shrugged. “As you say.”

“Get to the point!” spat the King.

“What of the Queen?” asked de Rohan for the third time. “How do the commons view the arrest of the Queen?”

Ser Gerald exchanged a look with Mistress Anne. “There’s not one man nor woman in the city that believes the Queen to be guilty of ought save love for your grace,” said Ser Gerald.

De Vrailly had remained silent until that moment. He was not in armour—a rare moment for him—but wore a mi-parti pourpoint; the left side was of purple and white brocade, and the right of yellow silk. He wore his sword, the sword of the King’s Champion; he was almost the only man in the hall to wear a weapon, besides the King and Ser Gerald.

“She is an adulteress and a witch and a murderer,” de Vrailly said. “I will prove it.”

“You will prove it?” Ser Random asked, somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of the charges.

“I have challenged for trial by combat. The so-called Queen murdered my cousin D’Eu, and I will kill her champion and prove her guilt.” De Vrailly glared at Ser Gerald. “Will you champion her cause, Ser Gerald?”

De Rohan was seen to smile.

Gerald Random had not risen to his current level without knowing when a negotiation had sprung a hidden trap. He counted to five—a tactic that had served him well in other negotiations. He ignored the panic that the trap, now revealed, caused in his throat.

If he declined, then he appeared to agree to the guilt of the Queen, and de Rohan could ask a series of questions about the riots and the support for the Queen in the streets that would quickly go awry.

If he agreed, he was a dead man.

“When, my lord, do you plan to try this case?” Random asked.

“In the lists, on the first day of the tournament,” the King said.

Random bowed. “If your grace will relieve me of the duties of Master of the Tourney,” he said. “And if your grace feels that a man with no right foot, no formal training at arms, and fifty years of age is the man to defend his wife in the lists—” Ser Gerald extended his wooden foot so all present could see it, and bowed over it—a move he’d practised many times with his wife, hoping for a happier occasion as Master of the Tourney. “If that is the case,” Ser Gerald said without a touch of the derision he might have
used, “then I would be honoured to risk my life for her grace, who I see as blameless.”

Even de Vrailly caught the clear implication. For de Vrailly to fight Ser Gerald would make a laughing stock of the whole matter. And would be tantamount to the King declaring himself on the side of the accuser.

It was a calculated risk. And while the King’s face clouded over, and his temper boiled, Ser Gerald’s knees shivered, and he had trouble keeping his feet, or keeping the bland indifference that would be most hurtful to the King’s Galles on his face.

But Gerald Random had been scared many times. And he reminded himself that if he died in the lists defending the Queen, nothing about it would touch the horror of Lissen Carak and the things trying to eat him while he was alive.

He crossed himself.

De Rohan shrugged. “Of course, if you are afraid,” he said, but the words fell flat. Even de Vrailly looked at him as if he was some sort of worm.

Mistress Anne nodded. “And you have a licence? From the church?” she asked in a low voice.

The King’s face was bright red. “What licence do I need, sirrah?” His voice implied that she was a fool.

Mistress Anne curtsied. “Saving your grace’s pardon,” she said. “My husband is a clerk.”

The King looked at the Archbishop of Lorica.

He glanced at his secretary. The man writhed a moment. And then whispered in his master’s ear.

“This council is dismissed,” the archbishop said after a long look from the King.

Strong hands gripped Random’s arms. He didn’t struggle—he knew he’d failed. Even if they didn’t send him to fight for the Queen.

“Your grace!” he called. “These men are trying to bring down your kingdom!”

“Silence!” shouted de Rohan. “Your audience is at an end.”

“They lie, your grace!” Random shouted. He had a loud voice. “A fabric of lies. They have sent all your good men from court and now they ride you like a horse!”

By his left side, one of de Rohan’s men said to the guardsmen, “Take them somewhere they can enjoy his grace’s hospitality.”

“We are here under your grace’s safe conduct!” Random bellowed. But the King had left the chamber, and de Rohan stood by the throne.

“Enjoy the next few hours,” de Rohan said with an easy smile. “They are my gift to you.”

Hard hands dragged Random and Mistress Anne from the chamber, and down the first steps—past the laundry, and towards the dungeons.

The archbishop’s secretary was always on a tight schedule, and he left the palace late, wearing a plain brown robe like a mendicant friar, and went down into the town with two of his master’s guards.

Outside the gate was a large crowd of Harndoners.

“Master,” whined one of his guards. “We can’t go out in that. They’ll rip us apart.”

The learned doctor looked from one scared face to another. Since he knew—few better—what excesses these men were capable of, he was always surprised at the extremity of their cowardice.

Nor was Maître Gris without resources of his own. He puffed out his cheeks. “Very well,” he said. “You may bravely guard the palace. I’ll go have a cup of wine.” He shoved one of them in the chest.

The man, startled, backed up. “What the hell!”

“Now knock me down,” Maître Gris said. “And then go back inside.”

The man gave him a gap-toothed grin that lacked any pleasure—and hit him quite hard.

Maître Gris lay on the cobbles until the throbbing subsided, and picked himself up. An old woman—a crone, really—used her cane to help him up, and he blessed her automatically.

“God’s curse on them Galles,” she said.

Maître Gris joined the crowd. He moved with it for a while, gathering comments that his master might use, and then slipped away into the city.

The Angel Inn sat behind Sail Maker’s Lane in Waterside, just a few big buildings away from the Oar House. The inn was a fortress in miniature, with four linked buildings around a central court; balconied and walled in wood facing inward. In high summer, troops of players, minstrels, vagabonds, troubadours, mimes and acrobats would perform in the courtyard, and the inn, despite the unsavoury reputation of the neighborhood, had a fine reputation for food and for drink. Sailors and their officers frequented the place, and so did soldiers.

Maître Gris was the only monk. But he had nowhere to change into another disguise, nor were itinerant friars so very rare in taverns. He sat at a common table for a while, listening.

Buildings had been burned in the neighbourhood. The local men were outraged, and Maître Gris knew in half an hour that his life would be forfeit if they knew he was a Galle. He began to regret coming; their hatred was so inveterate that it sickened him, and he had to listen to an endless litany of hate.

He was a thoughtful man. He considered the hate that his master was brewing. The wine was terrible, the beer excellent.

“Are you by any chance looking to hire a scribe?” said a man.

He was tall, had grey-brown hair and wore a good green wool pourpoint
and a brown and green cloak. He wore an elegant black wool hood trimmed in miniver and he threw it back as he sat.

He was not at all what Maître Gris had expected. He did not have missing teeth, nor scars, nor a squint.

“You are…?” Maître Gris began.

The man also wore a fine black-hilted baselard long enough to serve as a sword. “At liberty,” he said pleasantly.

With the Oar House so close, the Angel did not run to slatterns or whores, and the man who waited on them was short, pudgy, and might have been cheerful if he had not just lost his older brother to the Galles.

“Yer foreign,” he spat accusingly at the well-dressed newcomer.

“I am from the Empire,” said the man. He bowed.

“Not a fuckin’ Galle?” the boy said.

The newcomer’s pronunciation and accent could not be hidden. “No,” he said pleasantly. “I am from the Empire.”

The serving boy jutted his jaw. “Say somethin’ in Archaic.”

The man spread his hands. “
Kyrie Eleison
,” he said. “
Christos Aneste
.”

The boy made a face. “Right enough, I suppose. What can I fetch you, Master?”

“Dark ale,” said the man in the fur-trimmed hood. He looked across the table. When the potboy was gone, he said, “You are very brave, or very stupid. Or just desperate.”

Maître Gris frowned. “I understand that you are available,” he said.

The man in the black hood bowed his head in assent.

“My master,” Maître Gris said.

“The Archbishop of Lorica,” said the other man.

The friar rose. “I do not think…” he said.

The other man waved at him. “You want to hire an intelligencer,” he said. “Please—I only meant to offer you my bona fides. What kind of man would I be if I did
not
know who you were?”

Maître Gris regarded the man. “As a foreigner, you will not know any more than I know, here.” He leaned forward. “What is your name?”