I felt something cold and thick in my throat that was making it hard to speak, to breathe. ‘The King thought I would—?’
‘He had more faith in you than in the all the rest of us combined, Falcio, but he knew there was a side to you . . . a part of you that loved him so much you would do anything to bring about the vision of the world you both shared. But a dream unchecked by conscience, unrestrained by the law? That’s the first step towards tyranny, Falcio.’
‘Then it’s too bad he didn’t have you follow Morn around, because he’s the one who—’
‘The King didn’t fear Morn, Falcio. He didn’t fear Patriana or the Dukes or anyone else. He believed in you so much that he trusted you to find a way to stop them. But if you went wrong? If you turned your back on what the Greatcoats stood for?’ Kest looked heart-broken. ‘I pleaded with him to pick someone else, Falcio. I begged him.’
The guilt and sorrow in Kest’s words became a poison in the back of my throat, mixing with my own shame and betrayal. Not only had Paelis so feared what I might one day become that he’d set my best friend against me, but in the end, I’d also proven him right. It took a long time before I could bring myself to ask, ‘What happens now? Does Paelis’ final mission compel you to . . . ? Have you come down here to kill me, Kest?’
For a moment the old Kest shone through: that laconic demeanour, the dry sense of humour, so subtle that most people mistook it for disinterest. ‘I’m fairly sure Trin has that covered.’
The jibe took me unawares and despite myself I laughed and added, ‘I almost feel sorry for her; she’s already used up the Greatcoat’s Lament on me. She must be poring through every book on punishment and torture ever written searching for something new to inflict me with.’
‘Ah, that’s your one piece of good fortune: Trin intends Filian’s first act as King to be your execution: “A show of strength,” she said. Her voice had a distinct note of glee in it at the time; I believe she was hoping to goad me into some reckless attempt to rescue you.’
‘I guess she’s in for a surprise.’ It was hard to imagine Filian executing anyone – although he had killed that poor mad dog of his. ‘How’s our new King supposed to do the deed?’
‘With a greatsword. A single stroke, apparently.’
That made sense. Watching your new monarch chopping away at a dying man’s neck for half an hour would make for a tiresome end to a coronation. I had a thought then. ‘Maybe he could borrow that great big bugger of a sword Hadiermo lugs around with him.’
That drew an unexpected chortle from Kest, who looked both surprised and a little mortified by the slightly high-pitched sound. ‘Don’t make me laugh like that,’ he said, returning to his usual reserved expression. ‘It’s humiliating.’
‘Perhaps you should take a break from mastering fighting techniques one day and spend a little time practising a slightly less embarrassing laugh.’
He hesitated, then, looking a little sheepish, confessed, ‘I’ve tried, believe me. Turns out laughter isn’t an entirely voluntary reaction.’
Maybe it was all the days and nights I’d spent sitting alone in my cell recently, but I found Kest’s admission unimaginably funny. I started laughing so hard I had to work at getting enough of a breath to mock him further.
‘Oh, Saints, just give me enough time before my beheading to tell Brasti that after all these years of being able to master everything from the most esoteric schools of fencing to the most complicated foreign dances, the great Kest Murrowson, the finest fighter in the country, the man who somehow once defeated Caveil-whose-blade-cuts-water himself, who—’
‘Falcio?’ Kest asked.
Something that had started as a passing thought, a question, really, began to tickle the inside of my mind until finally I stared at him through the bars and swore, ‘Son of a bitch. Tell me it isn’t true.’
‘Tell you what isn’t true?’ he asked, but a moment later his normally serious expression broke into a wide grin and I knew I was right.
Brasti and I had always wondered why Kest refused to tell us how he’d managed to beat Caveil-whose-blade-cuts-water. Considering you usually can’t get Kest to shut up about the particular virtues of the various martial strategies he’s mastered, he was abnormally silent on the subject of his duel with the Saint of Swords. Privately, we’d begun to suspect that there had to have been some form of divine intervention – which Brasti insisted was preposterously unfair – but this . . .
‘How was it even possible?’ I asked.
Kest shrugged. ‘Right before I was to fight Caveil, when I asked you how you’d beaten me in the fencing match to become First Cantor, you told me you’d fooled me into using my own reflexes against myself. Of course, I didn’t exactly have time to trick Caveil into making his muscles memorise the necessary reactions.’ He shook his head. ‘He was so fast, Falcio. I could barely even see his blade moving. Every time I tried to thrust at him, he just batted away my sword before the tip had moved even an inch. There was no way I could win in a fair fight.’
‘So you . . . ?’
‘Even as he was cutting me to ribbons, Caveil was boasting about the price you and Brasti and the others would pay for my arrogance in challenging him. He was describing the things he’d do to you all – he started saying, “I’ll use their stiffened corpses as decorations in my home” – and then . . . just when he was going to deliver the final blow . . .’ Kest looked down and leaned his head against the bars. ‘Please don’t ever tell Brasti about this. You have to promise . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘Because at that exact moment I found myself remembering the punchline to that joke Brasti always tells – about three lonely nuns and a dead cleric? You know the one: “Be careful where you sit, sister, or you’ll be committing a mortal sin”—’
The snort that came out my nose nearly set the bars of my cell shaking. ‘And Caveil?’
Kest looked up and I could see tears in his eyes from trying to hold back the laughter. ‘He was so shocked – he tried not to laugh, and he just stood there frozen. It was only an instant – less than half a second – but in that time I got the point of my sword into line and—’
‘You killed the Saint of Swords, the greatest fencer alive, with a dirty joke.’
Kest was giggling so hard now he had to grip the bars just to stay on his feet. ‘You can’t tell Brasti. I beg you. If he knew—’
‘He’d go around claiming he was the one who really defeated Caveil?’
Gradually Kest got hold of himself and said, very seriously, ‘I can endure almost anything, Falcio, but not having to refer to the worst swordsman I know as Brasti-whose-naughty-jokes-slay-all-monsters.’
That sent the two of us into another fit of uncontrollable laughter that must have made the guard at the other end of the hall wonder if we’d both gone completely mad.
When exhaustion finally settled upon us, I reached a hand through the bars and touched Kest’s arm. ‘Thank you,’ I said.