‘How did it come to this?’ I asked Nehra as we stood on the shore together. The others had remained on the ship after the last delivery, leaving me to row back by myself.
‘It was the war against the Saints,’ she replied. ‘Men abandoned their homes to kneel and moan outside palaces, heeding the call of clerics who insisted that if we all just prayed a little harder, then surely the Gods would favour us again. Each pilgrim was a strong back taken from the fields, a pair of sharp eyes to watch out for thieves and bandits, gentle arms to hold a sick child until the fever passed.’
‘But we beat the Blacksmith and his God,’ I insisted.
‘And many pilgrims returned – but not all, and those who did came too late to help with planting and harvesting.’
‘One bad harvest won’t break a village,’ I argued. ‘I was a farmer – we prepared against the hard times . . .’
But Nehra was shaking her head. ‘Think, Falcio: it was barely six months before the war against the Saints that we had Dashini masquerading as Greatcoats while they were killing off the Ducal families – and each noble death caused a hundred different failures of government, which in turn triggered a thousand different problems for the common folk. And before that? Have you forgotten Patriana trying to put Trin on the throne? I fear the country has been going to the hells for a very long time, First Cantor.’
‘But we—’
‘Yes, Falcio, you cleverly unwound the conspiracy, and you put a blade through Shuran’s guts: good for you! I’d call for a parade, but there isn’t anyone left to carry you down the streets in celebration.’ She gestured at the waves splashing against the rocky wall of the cliff. ‘It’s only water, Falcio, barely a breath against the hard stone of this land, and yet give it enough time, it will wear this place down to nothing.’
‘You make it sound hopeless.’
She gave me a rueful smile and held up her guitar. ‘I am a Bardatti, Falcio: a troubadour. I play hope every night, and joy twice on weekends. But when the hour grows late and the work day approaches, even I must play the ugly truth for all to hear.’
I wanted to dispute Nehra’s gloomy assessment, to tell her that my wife Aline and I had lived through times just as hard as these and had still made a happy life together – but the Bardatti wasn’t wrong. Those years had felt hard, but they weren’t nearly as chaotic as now: we hadn’t had to deal with civil wars and intrigues, with black-tabarded Knights and monstrous Gods.
‘Tell me what I have to do, Nehra,’ I begged. ‘Tell me how to put an end to all this madness.’
She waved a hand at the gentle waves that were slowly destroying the cliff wall. ‘There is the enemy, First Cantor. Will you challenge it to a duel?’
‘Maybe I’ll take up the guitar,’ I said, frustration seeping into my words, ‘and pretend that sweet music and poetry will stop the sea.’
Her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. ‘You know nothing of the Bardatti, most especially how dangerous we can be. Learn the ways of your own Order before you mock . . .’ She stopped then, and sighed. ‘Clear the roads, Falcio, if you want to make the country better. Bring seed from one place to another, deliver crops and cattle to where they are most needed. Move iron and copper from Orison down to Domaris and beef from Aramor up to Phan. Find labour where it is plentiful and move it to where there is land and money but not enough strong backs.’ She looked up at me. ‘Give us peace and time and prosperity.’
‘I’m a magistrate, Nehra – you know I can’t do any of those things.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘you can’t, and neither can I.’ She turned and began walking back to the path that led up the cliffs. ‘But you can bring the laws back to us, Falcio. Convince the Dukes to put that damned Queen of yours on the throne. Let us hope she can provide the rest.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Incompetent Spies
Another day and a half of seasickness aboard our stolen barge brought us to the middle of nowhere, as planned. Werta’s Point was named after the former Saint of the Seas – though I’m told it’s also sometimes referred to as Zaghev’s Point, after Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears, on account of the torturous rocks hiding in the shallows. Neither name made much sense any more, since both Saints were dead. More pertinently, while Werta’s Point had once been a fishing village, decades of war, disease or perhaps just a lack of fish had reduced it to half a dozen cottages worn down by wind and water and salt.
Duchess Ossia’s tent was a beacon amidst these desolate ruins.
Well, perhaps ‘tent’ is the wrong word. The twenty-foot-high pavilion was made of what looked like extremely costly red velvet, with gleaming cloth-of-gold trim.
Chalmers, Kest, Brasti and I stared up at the centre poles that seemed determined to prod the clouds above.
‘It’s like a gargantuan toy castle meant for some obscenely wealthy child.’ Chalmers sounded genuinely offended.
‘Try not to open with that when you meet the Duchess,’ I said.
‘How about “Your Grace, what an honour it is to visit your moveable monstrosity of wasted textiles”?’ Brasti suggested.
‘That isn’t better.’
‘Actually,’ Kest said, ‘the correct architectural designation would be a “twin-peaked pavilion with central marquee”.’
‘I think mine is more accurate,’ Brasti said.
The front flaps opened to reveal a red-haired man about my age, an inch or two taller, dressed in a long brocade coat of red and gold that matched the tent.
‘I am Fentan Tuvelle,’ he informed us portentously, ‘Chamberlain to the Duchess Ossia of Baern.’
‘Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the—’
He cut me off. ‘Did you think me unaware of your identity?’
‘I just assumed we were being polite.’
A thin but strident voice called out from inside the tent, ‘Fentan, just get those damned fools in here!’
‘At once, your Grace.’ He turned back to me, his features settling into a weary expression. ‘I suspect you’ll find little concern for politeness inside.’ He looked the four of us up and down as if trying to estimate how much dirt we were going to be tracking into his lovely tent. ‘You’ll have to leave your weapons outside,’ he said finally.
‘We’re magistrates,’ Chalmers protested. ‘By right and tradition we—’
‘Leave it,’ I said. This wasn’t my first scolding by an angry, self-important old crone and experience had taught me it was better to get it over with quickly and as painlessly as possible.
I unbelted my rapiers and handed them to Fentan, then signalled for the others to do the same. When Kest started to unstrap his shield, the chamberlain motioned for him to keep it. ‘Best hang onto that,’ he said. ‘Maybe if you’re quick enough you can keep some of the tea from staining the carpets.’
*