‘I believe that the eagle is the symbol of the Margrave of Val Iramont,’ Kest replied.
As the galleon gradually drew closer, a slender man with a slight stoop and thinning grey hair approached the side. He was in his late fifties, I estimated. He ignored us and looked to the other end of the barge, where Evidalle was kneeling with his bride. ‘Margrave Evidalle,’ the man called out courteously, ‘my profound apologies for arriving late to your blessed day. We had some rather inclement conditions navigating the Red Bay and then . . . well, never mind now.’ He glanced at the rest of us: three – four – Greatcoats, the frantic guests, and finally the dead guardsmen. ‘I appear to have missed the festivities . . .’
Evidalle rose to his feet and minding his bandaged hand, adjusted his coat before making his way to the side of the barge and greeting the newcomers with as much grace as his dishevelled condition would allow. ‘Margrave Rhetan, how wonderful to see you, regardless of the hour.’ Then, in a rather impertinent stretching of the truth, he added, ‘As it happens, we delayed the ceremony until your arrival.’
Margrave Rhetan gave his own perfunctory bow and motioned for his men to extend a narrow boarding bridge from the deck of his galleon down to the wedding barge. Without showing a trace of concern over the blood, fallen guardsmen, and rather large numbers of drawn weapons, he stepped across and said, ‘I hope there’s food left. My men haven’t eaten.’
I looked past him to see the rows of soldiers, weapons at their sides, preparing to come across. I guessed there were around a hundred.
‘What now?’ Chalmers asked.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t plan on another Margrave showing up with his own private army.’
‘You know all your plans are terrible, don’t you?’ Brasti asked.
‘That’s not true,’ Kest countered. ‘A number of Falcio’s schemes have proven to be ingenious.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mind you, this isn’t one of them.’
‘Well,’ Brasti said, retrieving his bow from the deck and nocking an arrow to the string, ‘maybe we’ll be lucky for once; maybe Margraves Evidalle and Rhetan don’t like each other very much.’
Evidalle caught my eye and it became clear to me that whatever numbing salves the healers had given him to ease the pain of his wounded hand had kicked in because he could barely contain his laughter.
As Margrave Rhetan stepped onto the deck of the wedding barge, Evidalle embraced him and said, ‘It really is wonderful to see you, Uncle.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The Margrave of Val Iramont
When someone holds your life in their hands, they become remarkably impressive to behold.
At first glance, Rhetan might easily have been mistaken for a peasant farmer or a village shoemaker. He had the lined, leathery skin that comes from age and too much sun; his posture was that of a man whose fight with time was being lost by degrees. His hair was thin and mostly white, only a few stubborn strands of black remaining, and cropped close to his head. Stripped of his galleon and his hundred-odd soldiers, Rhetan would have been an altogether unimposing figure.
Of course, he did have a galleon, and he did have an army.
A dozen of his men accompanied him down to the wedding barge while the rest remained behind, leaning up against the railings of their ship and making sure we all got a good look at their assortment of crossbows and more than a few pistols.
Rhetan’s men wore leather armour studded with steel rings sewn onto the surface, making it durable without adding weight or bulk: an efficient choice – perhaps less grand than the plate worn by the Knights, but better suited to the dangers of fighting aboard ship. More importantly, each man’s cuirass was properly sized to his chest and torso. Rhetan clearly took care of his people, and they, in turn, looked upon him without the disdain that soldiers so often held for their Lords.
It was the soldiers’ obvious respect for Rhetan that transformed his appearance in my eyes.
The wrinkles that might otherwise have suggested a doddering old man now looked to me as the mark of keen intellect and long study. His slightly stooped posture wasn’t the sign of failing muscles exhausted by a long voyage; it was evidence of a man fully at ease in the world. The lack of notice he gave to potential threats all around him didn’t signify a deficit of observation but rather served to illustrate a single, incontestable fact: Rhetan was in control.
‘Breathe, everyone,’ he said. ‘You’ll live longer.’
The entire company – wedding guests, Knights, guards, and even Margrave Evidalle – watched as Rhetan wandered over to the cooking spits. He picked up a dinner knife from a nearby table and cut a piece of pork off the carcase. ‘The meat’s overdone, I’m afraid.’
‘Try the chicken,’ Brasti suggested. I elbowed him in the ribs.
From behind the spits I could hear the quavering sound of the cook’s voice. ‘Forgive me, your Lordship . . . I . . . there was so much—’
‘Relax,’ Rhetan said, still chewing on his piece of pork, ‘if I killed every chef who overcooked my dinner there wouldn’t be a man left in Tristia who knew how to light a fire.’ A smattering of nervous laughter rose up, but Rhetan cut it off simply by ignoring it. He turned to survey the crowd. ‘You’re scared. That’s fine. Use it to make yourselves smart. Keep your mouths shut until you have something useful to say and you might just survive the afternoon.’
Such a bold statement would normally have elicited a blistering response from the noble guests, several of whom were Viscounts and Viscountesses of large condates and thus of equal rank to the Margrave. These men and women, who normally took poorly to being told to shut up, kept remarkably silent.
In fact, no one moved so much as a muscle – except for one of Rhetan’s own soldiers, a black-haired, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, who came forward to kneel before Rhetan. ‘Margrave? The men await your orders.’
‘The men can relax, too, Pheras.’ He wagged a finger in mock reprimand. ‘Patience. You can’t have too much patience.’
‘Patience ruined the meat,’ Brasti said.
I whispered in his ear, ‘It’s rather important that you stop talking now.’
‘Better overdone and a little chewy than so raw it makes you sick,’ Rhetan said as he grabbed a silk napkin from the nearby table and began cleaning his dinner knife. ‘Patience is always the wiser course. I had four older brothers. The eldest two were twins, though there was some dispute as to which of them emerged first from our mother’s womb – they killed each other when they were twelve, before either was even of age to take the title. The third, determined to prove he was too strong to be challenged by the fourth, died from heat and exhaustion practising with his sword one particularly hot summer’s day. Weak heart.’ The corners of his lips turned down. ‘I always liked Pieten best. I miss him still.’