Марк Ньютон - Drakenfeld

We were going to be around in Tryum for a while.

The soldiers manning the entrance to the open courtyard in front of Optryx were not interested in my badge of office, though I did need to give the day’s password, which Veron had told me last night. Security was tighter now – was this a reaction to the murder? If indeed it was, it had come far too late.

The building was quiet, not at all what I assumed would be the bustling residence of servants, administrative staff and politicians in full flow. Senator Veron met me and steered me towards a small side room with a highly polished desk, marble floor, and shelves full of books. Judging by the abacus, it must have been some kind of accounting or stocktaking room.

Inside was a dark-haired man in his early forties wearing military garb, a deep red tunic, leather breastplate, and with a sword sheathed at his side. Dark, short and well-oiled hair, and with a wide yet lean face, he was muscular, confident and relaxed. Reaching out with his right hand, he stood to greet me. His forearm was incredibly solid, and it had been a while since someone had gripped my own arm so tightly. Though I was a relatively tall man, he looked down on me. Small scars of battle were dotted about his face.

Senator Veron conducted the introductions: ‘General Maxant, may I present to you Lucan Drakenfeld, Tryum’s new officer of the Sun Chamber.’

Maxant stared intensely with his bold, hazel eyes. His manner was proud. ‘The son of Calludian returns home.’

The words sounded like some kind of accusation. ‘You knew my father?’

‘Not well, but we met many years ago. I remembered him to be a good man. Honourable, reliable. Keen eye for detail. I hope this remains a family trait.’

‘As do I. I’m sorry to meet you under such circumstances.’

He turned to the desk and gestured to two pieces of paper. ‘We matched a register taken last night to the guest list. Everyone is accountable. Everyone has at least another to vouch for their presence. Everyone who was invited remained here until released.’

‘Very effective work by your soldiers, general,’ I said.

‘Good men, my lot. We’ve been through much.’

I could only imagine the exertions of a long campaign. Maxant’s army had been abroad for years. They had lost ten thousand men over that period, had fought many battles and skirmishes, and at one point faced starvation. For them to have stuck at it so long would have required a phenomenal sense of loyalty and leadership. Indeed, they had been through so much.

I looked at the guest list. People had been arranged into classes of status, from the men and women of the Senate through to respected citizens of the city. ‘These weren’t the only people here last night. Where are the lists for the staff, the soldiers?’

Maxant nodded. ‘We will get a list of them and let you know if there is something of note. As for the actors—’

‘What access did they have?’ I asked. ‘What were the productions, how long were they in the building?’

Maxant looked to Senator Veron, who shrugged. ‘I’ll ask around. We’ll get the answers – don’t worry.’

‘I would appreciate that.’

‘King Licintius wishes to see you shortly,’ Maxant announced. ‘We have a few moments yet before we must go.’

Senator Veron moved to the shelves to glance at the books. ‘How’s he been since last night, general?’

‘How do you think?’ Maxant snapped. ‘Licintius is devastated. He loved his sister deeply. Their bond was strong, and who else can he really trust? Everyone thinks they can do a better job. Him and his sister were left in powerful positions at a young age with only each other for confidences, so I suspect he feels utterly alone now.’

‘Indeed, it’s very sad, very sad,’ Veron said. ‘Still, at least he has his general back now to confide in.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Maxant stood a little taller as if to express his dominance in the room. Veron seemed oblivious to the fact, merely raising one eyebrow at the now-bitter tone of the general.

Veron shrugged. ‘Only that you’re an old friend, and no doubt he’ll be glad you’re back to help him through this.’

Maxant grunted and turned his back on the senator.

‘The Senate will discuss the matter shortly,’ Veron continued. ‘We must see to it that we establish some firm facts before the rumours spread across the city. Of course, if Drakenfeld here is as sharp as his father, hopefully we’ll have no need to worry about rumours.’

No matter how sharp I might be, it wouldn’t stop people talking.

We exited the room and were absorbed into a larger contingent of officials and soldiers, twelve of us in all. Hushed instructions passed back and forth: ‘You wait for the king to arrive. You fall to two knees – not one, do not bow – two knees. Do not look him in the eye until he has spoken.’

Our group passed through the marble corridors and under the immense domes once again, which were even more impressive in the light of day. We did not walk by the temple. I wanted to return to the scene of the crime in the hope of working out the mechanics of the incident without the distraction of others.

The huge chamber we entered next left me awed. I had never seen such artwork adorning plaster like this – not in quantity, style or clarity. Every vacant wall space was covered in hugely expensive hues, great vistas or scenes from the myths of our lands – that looked so real they could have been alive. Large windows pierced the walls. Through one of the lower ones could be seen the rooftops of Tryum, and the little plumes of smoke from domestic hearths. A city as yet unaware of the crime that had been committed against its monarch.

We were instructed to stand in the centre of the room. The floors were made of highly polished white marble; bold red pillars lined the chamber like a temple, leading to steps up to a cushioned throne. Made of dark wood, the throne was carved in such detail that it couldn’t be appreciated from where we stood. Nobody spoke. The faces of the others betrayed their anxiousness, although Maxant seemed relaxed.

Moments later, after the clattering of a few doors, two soldiers of the King’s Legion led a man into the room.

Those around me fell to two knees while I, a Sun Chamber officer, needed only to fall to one – a quirk of Vispasian law that left me on a par with the greatest citizens of Tryum, but more nervous than it should have. Those nearby had their gazes fixed on the marble floor. Even the mighty General Maxant did not look up, though both he and Veron were on one knee also.

‘Please rise, all of you,’ Licintius called out. ‘You know I tire of ceremony when matters are of a serious nature.’ His voice possessed a lovely timbre, but was weighed down by melancholy.

Everyone rose to their feet while an aide to one side whispered in Licintius’ ear. His blond hair was wavy, in the style of the military heroes of the old Empire, and he was dressed in a purple tunic that, on closer inspection, contained a spectacular amount of subtle detail in the stitching. His highly polished boots were light brown, matching his belt. There were a couple of items of jewellery around his wrists, gold bangles, a surprisingly effeminate decoration for a king. Everything about his composure, the slight upturned angle of his jaw, the way he held his arms, all suggested years of practice to perfect the look of noble dignity.

Licintius nodded and regarded the rest of the room, moving his gaze across the gathered faces. ‘Lucan Drakenfeld?’

Being in the presence of kings always made my heart beat just a little faster. Licintius stepped forward to meet me. His eyes were a piercing jade colour and he gave off complex scents, reminiscent of jasmine and citrus. Close up he looked a little older, but he couldn’t have been many more years advanced than me, perhaps in his mid-thirties at most. His face was broad and lean, much like Maxant’s, yet Licintius was a slight man, and not anywhere near as tall.