Filian rose from the throne. ‘My people,’ he began, ‘dangerous times are upon us, and so I call upon my Dukes to witness my first act as your King . . .’ His words trailed off.
I didn’t understand what had happened until I strained my neck to look around the room and realised that Hadiermo, Erris, -Meillard and Pastien were all missing. Valiana’s claim to Rijou had not yet been validated – no doubt because Trin was in no hurry to let Filian do so – and that meant that there was not a single Duke or Duchess in the room.
‘Where are the Dukes of Domaris, Pulnam and Pertine?’ Trin demanded. ‘Where is the Ducal Protector of Luth?’
A woman’s voice called out from the crowd, ‘I think they might be busy right now.’
Trin had asked the question, but it’s actually considered highly impolite – if not downright suicidal – to speak at a coronation without the express leave of his newly anointed Majesty. The eyes of everyone present turned to a single woman standing previously unnoticed amidst the crowd near the front of the dais. She was wearing a brown leather greatcoat with a ship inlaid on the left breast.
‘Quil?’ I said incredulously.
She nodded to me. ‘Falcio.’
‘How did this Trattari get in here?’ Trin shouted at the guards.
‘I’m a Greatcoat, bitch. Getting in and out of places without being caught is our specialty.’ She looked back at me, kneeling, chained to the block of highly polished oak. ‘Well, most of us, anyway.’
There were a number of calls for her immediate arrest and execution, but Quil didn’t even flinch. ‘You don’t want to do that,’ she warned before anyone had even made a move towards her. ‘The Avareans take a dim view of those who harm their messengers.’ She took two steps forward and extended a rolled-up piece of parchment towards the dais.
She waited for someone to come and take it, and after a hesitation, Filian gestured at one of the pages, who ran down to take it from her and bring it to the throne.
Trin reached for the parchment, but Filian gently pushed her hand aside and took it himself. I was rather surprised that she didn’t slit his throat on the spot. There’s love for you.
When Filian was done reading the document, he handed it to a clerk and said, ‘Read it aloud.’
‘From the Magdan,’ he started, ‘Warlord of Avares and First -Magistrate of . . . Boreadis?’
Boreadis. Land of the Northern Winds. This must be the country Morn plans to carve out of Orison and Hervor. Nice name.
The clerk continued, ‘To the tyrant and false-born usurper called Filian—’ He stopped again, evidently feeling rather exposed, having just insulted the King, but Filian bade him to read on and he continued, his voice wobbling a little, ‘Know that your presence is a blight on a great people with a great history, and that the crown on your head will be justly removed the very hour we come to liberate the Duchy of Aramor from you.’
The clerk was not alone in looking stunned. There were no threats, no demands, no terms set forth; the Magdan had skipped over all the usual diplomatic feints and instead, simply declared war and signalled his intention to invade.
To his credit, Filian tried to make the best of the situation. ‘We thank you, madam,’ he said politely to Quillata, ‘and assure your safe passage back to . . . wherever it is you now return to.’
She gave him a wink. ‘Why, that’s kind of you, your Majesty. I’d bend a knee but’ – and again she looked at me – ‘present company excluded, Greatcoats don’t kneel.’
Trin looked like she might grab the massive executioner’s sword and take a swing at Quil herself, but other events overtook her: as if on cue, five messengers resplendent in Ducal colours made their way through the crowds. The one dressed in the pale blue of my home Duchy stepped forward first, bearing a little stack of vellum scrolls. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me, but their Graces have been called away on urgent business.’
Filian kept his calm far better than the crowd of panicked nobles surrounding him. ‘What business requires the immediate absence of my Dukes?’ he enquired calmly.
‘The need to protect their people, your Majesty. Troops must be deployed and borders fortified.’
‘The defence of Tristia is in the purview of the King,’ Trin started. ‘He will decide—’
‘Forgive me, your Grace,’ the messenger said. His voice was remarkably even, considering he was almost certainly dead. I wondered how much the Dukes had promised to reward the families of these men in exchange for their certain sacrifice. ‘The borders we speak of are those of our respective nations.’
‘Nations?’ Filian asked.
The messenger said, ‘For the defence of their people, Pertine, Domaris, Pulnam, Baern and Luth can no longer remain Duchies within the country of Tristia, your Majesty, nor are their rulers your Dukes. The Princes of our respective nations send their regrets and wish you a pleasant reign.’
Chaos erupted then, although it wouldn’t change anything. It was more the petulant rantings of children: Trin shouted, of course, commanding the messengers be arrested immediately. If Filian had any sense, he’d free them in a few hours; it wouldn’t be a great start to his reign, announcing to all and sundry that the Dukes’ – or rather, the Princes’ – representatives weren’t safe in his court.
Less than ten minutes after the crown had been placed upon his head, Filian, King of Tristia, had lost more than half his country, without anyone even unsheathing a weapon.
Some clerk I’d never seen before ran onto the dais and began drafting a declaration voiding the secession of the Duchies – but that was a waste of time too. All of this fury and uproar was accomplishing nothing.
Well, maybe not entirely nothing. All the rushing-around of the clerks, the guards and the confused nobles was apparently too much for the already weakened foundations. With a great crack, the throne room began to shift and the crowd fled, pushing and shoving, from the room as the floor slowly collapsed beneath them.
Kest and Brasti hauled me – and the beheading block I was still chained to – out of the room.
As I watched what was left of the dais groan and fall into the gaping pit to the floor below, I wondered if perhaps I’d been a little too quick to decide that life wasn’t poetry.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Uncomfortable Rescue
A rescue – a proper rescue, that is – usually takes place in four stages. First, there is the devastatingly clever plan, which requires juggling dozens – if not hundreds – of tiny details involving everything from the position of each guard in the room to the relative slickness of the floors. That’s if the circumstances are favourable. In a well-guarded castle, in plain view of hundreds of onlookers, escape is highly unlikely without the aid of a brilliant tactician.
I got Brasti.