‘I’m not the one denying her that,’ I said, ‘but her situation won’t get better with Pastien running around saying—’
‘When she is in pain, Falcio, she hides from her fear by retreating into the one thing she knows: duty.’ Ethalia let her fingers graze against mine. ‘You of all people should understand.’
I tried to take her hand in mine but she pulled away. ‘I have duties of my own to which I must attend,’ she said, and left.
I cursed myself for misreading the moment.
After the fall of the Blacksmith and his God, Ethalia and I had spent what little free time we’d had together, walking among the broken remains of the castle, exploring the town or wandering the nearby hills. I found myself fascinated by all those things we’d foregone in our rush to become lovers: we talked about books we’d read, foods we loved or hated, places we hoped one day to visit. As a Sister of Merciful Light, Ethalia had received a wide-ranging education in the arts and sciences, but she’d never travelled outside of Rijou and Aramor. The little island off the coast of Baern she spoke of so often was just a place in a story to her. So I told her about the nine Duchies, and in return she instructed me in botany, chemistry and any number of other subjects I was woefully ignorant of. It wasn’t a promise of anything beyond friendship, I understood that, but nothing I did felt complete until I’d shared it with Ethalia. I found it a strange and confusing compulsion, but I hoped perhaps it was simply how people who don’t spend every waking minute of their lives fighting go about the business of falling in love.
Except maybe it wasn’t that at all.
‘Well?’ Brasti asked, bringing me back to the present. ‘What’s your plan now, First Cantor? Do we go and beat the shit out of Pastien anyway, or find some other nobleman’s arse to kiss?’
Lack of sleep and seasickness must have caught up with me, because I’d actually forgotten that he, Kest and Chalmers were standing there, waiting for me to say something. Saints! Why do people keep looking to me for answers when every decision I make just creates more problems?
‘Part of caring for Valiana is respecting her decisions,’ Kest said to me. ‘She’s asked you to stay out of this.’
‘It’s the logical thing to do,’ I agreed.
Brasti was unconvinced. ‘Except that now we’re saying it’s okay for a nobleman to besmirch Valiana’s reputation just because we might need his vote . . .’
‘That’s politics,’ Kest said. ‘We may not like it, but since none of us are very good at it, we’re going to have to trust in Valiana’s judgement.’
A refined, deeply self-satisfied voice replied silkily, ‘Any man who uses the words “politics” and “trust” in the same sentence has disqualified himself from talking about either.’
Jillard, Duke of Rijou, was leaning against the wall a few feet away. For a nobleman, he had a remarkable ability to move silently.
‘Who’s he?’ Chalmers asked.
Brasti snorted. ‘Oh, just a lying, vicious, self-important lunatic who’s tried to murder Falcio on more than one occasion.’
‘Let me guess: that makes him one of our closest allies?’ she asked.
‘Now you’re catching on.’
‘You look well, your Grace,’ I lied. While Jillard retained his immaculately styled hair and fashionably cut red and silver brocade coat, his eyes looked just as they had the last time I’d seen him, standing over his son’s dead body: emptied of all joy and filled instead with a hollowed-out darkness.
‘As do you, Falcio,’ he said.
That was okay; I knew I looked like shit.
I felt an odd kinship with the Duke of Rijou, and occasionally had to remind myself that Brasti was right: he was as much a monster as anyone else in this benighted country. I had hoped that grief might improve him somehow, but as he approached us, I saw Bendain had been hiding behind him.
‘You’ve added bribing royal pages to your list of crimes now?’
‘Don’t think poorly of the boy, Falcio. He wasn’t spying on Valiana.’
‘Then who—?’
Jillard spread out his hands and gestured: the rooms around us were occupied by the various nobles who made up Pastien’s entourage. ‘What you imagine to be a private matter between young lovers is, of course, nothing of the kind.’
‘You’re saying this situation was . . . arranged somehow?’ Kest asked.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jillard replied. ‘Those skilled in the arts of manipulation don’t stoop to anything as simplistic as plans. Rather, they set up the conditions necessary to ensure they can take advantage of otherwise unpredictable events. For example—’
‘A young, na?ve nobleman panicking at his lover’s ardour?’ I asked.
Jillard smiled in that way of his that signals neither pleasure nor friendship but simply the satisfaction of knowing something you don’t. ‘That, or a dozen other outcomes, all of which Valiana’s enemies would be happy to use to damage her standing among my fellow Dukes, lessening her influence with those whose support she needs most if Aline is to be crowned.’
I tried to ignore his smugness as I made sense of his words. ‘Let me guess: if we don’t do something about Pastien, the nobles around him will encourage him to keep spreading this story of Valiana’s madness. And if we do—’
‘They’ll say she’s using the Greatcoats to threaten nobles.’
‘So, either way I’m damned, is that it?’
Jillard turned and headed back down the hall. ‘I would think you’d be used to it by now, Falcio.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Subtle Forms of Persuasion
The one good thing about having two equally terrible options is that you needn’t waste time considering your choices. I followed the others outside and arranged for space in one of the tents, then used my well-deserved reputation for brooding and pacing to go for a walk through the castle grounds.
The next two hours involved a great deal of crouching and silently padding past guards too busy gossiping about the recent excitement and sharing their own rather unsavoury predictions for Valiana’s future to pay attention to their duties. Finally, I reached the spot where I could climb up the back of the keep to the window that led to the antechamber next to Pastien’s bedroom. With no other suitably grand apartments available within the castle, I reasoned that the young Ducal Protector would have to end up back there eventually, ready to snuggle down in his bed and dream of new ways to be a pain in my arse.
It was only a paltry fifteen feet, but the climb was a slow, pain-staking process and by the time I had worked the window open and squirmed through it into the little side room I was so exhausted I had to sit down to catch my breath. Breaking into a castle is a lot harder work than the ballads suggest – it’s no wonder spies and assassins are so expensive.
Once I’d settled myself, I approached the adjoining door between the antechamber and the bedroom. For a heartbeat I considered knocking, before deciding that quietly turning the handle just enough would enable me to kick it open; that would be, I thought, a suitably grand and menacing entrance.
Except that Pastien wasn’t alone.