Seven figures stepped forward, led by Darriana. She looked as uninterested in my welfare as always, but our encounters usually begin with her making rude comments about me, so I found her current silence unnerving. Gwyn followed, his eyes darting here and there, looking almost as confused as I felt. I would have been sympathetic, but his bonds had been removed.
One by one the others came into view: Quentis Maren, still in his old Inquisitor’s coat, standing next to a young Knight with dark, curly hair and an unfamiliar sigil on his surcoat. Kest took up position on the other side of Nehra, then motioned for a shy-looking woman to join him. I wondered where I’d seen her before, then recognised her. she’d been standing on the dais during the coronation, representing the support of the common folk for their beloved new King.
Valiana stood silently beside Ethalia; the Saint’s hard gaze was moving back and forth between Nehra and me and she didn’t look especially predisposed towards mercy for either of us. ‘Don’t goad him,’ she told Nehra. ‘He has the right to know why you’ve brought him here.’
‘I should think that would be obvious: the First Cantor of the Greatcoats tried to kill the lawful King of Tristia.’
‘In my defence, I was mostly keen on killing his lover – he just happened to be in the way,’ I started. ‘Also, at that time he was still technically just the heir to the throne.’ I should have stopped then and there but the wounds were too fresh. ‘Apparently no one minds if you kill a few of those.’
A sob escaped Valiana’s lips and I felt vile for having drawn it from her, but I couldn’t keep myself from adding, ‘Besides, as I understand it, the Ducal Council already held a trial in my absence. I’m told they served cake.’
Nehra nodded to Brasti. ‘He’s telling stupid jokes again. I think it’s safe to remove his bonds now.’
He knelt beside me and started fiddling with the cuffs binding me to the beheading block. A grinding click was followed by one of the manacles coming loose from my wrist. Brasti turned his attention to the other, and a few moments later I had the enormous satisfaction of watching the wooden block crash to the marble floor.
‘You know, Nehra,’ I began, rubbing my wrists to get the blood flowing to my hands again, ‘I’m absolutely positive there was a time when I liked you. Mind you, I suspect we were a good two hundred miles apart at the time.’
‘Have you figured out why you’re here, First Cantor?’ she asked.
‘Not exactly, but I see a pattern in this little jury you’ve put together.’ I pointed at her. ‘Bardatti.’ My finger drifted to the Knight. ‘Honori.’ One by one I called them out. ‘Gwyn, for the Rangieri, -Darriana, for the Dashini, I assume. Quentis to represent the Cogneri, Ethalia for the Sancti, and finally’ – my finger stopped at Valiana – ‘a Greatcoat.’
‘Trattari,’ Nehra corrected. ‘Is it really so difficult for you to say the word?’
It is, actually. Usually when people hurl it at me it’s a prelude to them trying to kill me.
I gestured to the woman in carpenter’s garb. ‘Which Order do you represent?’
She stiffened. ‘None,’ she said, ‘but I have as much right to speak at these proceedings as any of these others.’
‘Then I suppose we should get started,’ I said to Nehra. ‘Now, since you’re not a magistrate and have no fucking business holding a trial, allow me to help by letting you know that it’s customary to begin with a recitation of the charges against the accused.’
Nehra answered my challenge with a question. ‘Do you know how the Trattari began, Falcio?’
‘The Greatcoats began when Damelas Chademantaigne, the King’s Hope, swore his oath some two hundred years ago.’
She sighed so I would know that yet again I’d disappointed her. ‘The Order of Trattari are far older than that, Falcio – as are the Honori, the Rangieri and all the rest.’ She turned to the others. ‘You have all forgotten your history; time and ignorance have fragmented those who once stood together as part of a vital and more complex design.’
‘But you remember?’
‘Yes, because we Bardatti are the memory of this country! We keep the past alive through song and story, poem and performance. We still remember the rhymes of the Dal Verteri.’
‘Dal Verteri?’ The words were archaic Tristian; they meant something like the road of the virtuous, or maybe the path of the daring; something about a road or a bridge or a pothole, anyway, and something else that sounded pretentious.
‘Twelve ancient Orders: men and women who chose a path of service in defence of this country and its people.’
‘We appear to be short a few,’ I noted.
She nodded. ‘Some of the Orders have lost their way, like the Honori. The rest have faded away completely.’ She gestured to the others. ‘We in this room, and those we represent, are the last remaining strands of a tapestry that for centuries protected Tristia and inspired its people.’
The words sounded very grand, which, unexpectedly, made me laugh. I pointed to the young man in armour. ‘And you’re including the Honori in this little myth of yours? The fucking Knights? When have they been anything more than thugs and bully-boys?’
‘My name is Elizar,’ the young man said, taking a step forward as if he were giving evidence. ‘My fellow Honori weren’t always this way. In my youth, my grandmother shared the stories with me of her grandmother: a Village Knight who protected the common folk and organised them in times of danger that they might fight together to defend their homes and families.’
‘It makes sense,’ Kest said, sounding far too earnest given how ridiculous this all sounded. ‘Falcio, how many times have we asked ourselves how the notion of “honour” could be so important to Knights when all they ever do is the bidding of their Lords, no matter how unfair or cruel? What if their practices – their very notion of honour – has simply become corrupted over time?’
I’d have had an easier time believing the religious torturers known as the Admorteo were really just physicians who healed their patients with vigorous massage. I looked over at Darriana. ‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘Since we’re spinning fairy-tales, why don’t you tell me how the Dashini were really very nice people whose history of assassination is just a terrible misunderstanding?’
The look of shame in her eyes told me she was uncomfortable at being forced to count herself among their number, but still she said, ‘The old man . . . the one you met when you found the Dashini monastery? He spoke of a time when the Dashini served as spies, uncovering plots and schemes within the nine Duchies that could threaten the security of the country—’
Gwyn’s eyes went wide as he turned to her and finished, ‘—while we Rangieri scouted those dangers that arose from outside of the country . . . Yes! My teacher Yimris always used to wonder why our missions took us always along the borders and outside, never within Tristia itself.’
‘The Dashini did kill,’ Nehra admitted, ‘but it wasn’t murder, not originally.’
‘So, mercy killings then? A quick poignard to the heart for those tired of life?’