David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“All of them, your majesty,” the advisor said. “The heads of all three families, to die within minutes of one another.”

The king whistled appreciatively.

“Good to know the old boy hasn’t lost his balls. How’s he expect to do that?”

Gerand explained the plan. The king’s eyes never left the mirror.

“Interesting,” said the king. “Clearly we can’t let him go through with it. Send word to one of them, Connington maybe, about their plan. Let them find some devious way to scheme it to their benefit.”

“I’m not sure that is the best course of action,” Gerand said, broaching the subject carefully. He was well aware of the king’s paranoia, and he planned to use that to his full advantage. “But you remember what their last Kensgold was like, don’t you?”

“You’re assuming I even know what a bloody Kensgold is.”

Gerand mentally swore. The last time the Trifect had held a Kensgold was two years ago. The king had only been fourteen at the time.

“A Kensgold is a meeting of all three houses of the Trifect,” the advisor explained. “They meet at one of their estates. They brag about their riches, compare trade agreements, discuss the downfall of any competitors, and overall spend a frightening amount of gold. It’s a show of wealth, power, and solidarity.”

“I care about this why?” Edwin asked. He grabbed his gold sword from a chair beside him. Gerand turned and coughed, using the excuse to roll his eyes. The king had commissioned the sword as one of his first orders of rule when he ascended the throne at age twelve. The longsword wasn’t tinted gold or covered with gold at the hilt. The whole bloody thing was made of solid gold: heavy, cumbersome, and thoroughly impractical. It shone beautifully in the light, though, and that was all Edwin cared about.

“Mercenaries from all over Dezrel will come pouring in for a taste of the coin the Trifect will be spending during the Kensgold. Hundreds upon hundreds, some from as far west as Ker and Mordan. At their last Kensgold, our best estimates put them at having over five thousand men on their retainer, not counting their house soldiers.”

King Vaelor looked at Gerand as if he were insane.

“That’s nearly seven thousand men sworn to one banner inside my walls.”

“Within a short walk from your castle doors, yes,” Gerand added, unable to resist.

“Fuck. How long does this blasted Kensgold last?”

“Just a single night,” said Gerand.

He could already see the fear spreading in Edwin’s eyes. One night was enough to assassinate a king. One night was enough to supplant the hierarchy with the rule of coin and trade.

“We must stop them,” Edwin said. He clutched his gold sword tight, as if he were to draw it and strike some unseen enemy.

“There’s no way we can,” Gerand said, feigning defeat.

“There is. Ban the mercenaries from our city. Get rid of them. They can’t pass through our walls if we don’t let them.”

Gerand nearly choked. He had been hoping Edwin would call for a sharp curtailing of the Trifect’s power. A massive increase in taxes, plus a crackdown on some of their more illegal activities, would have done wonders to subdue the Trifect’s smug flaunting of power. Banning all mercenaries, however, was about as far from what he wanted as the Abyss was to the Golden Eternity.

“Your majesty, you can’t,” Gerand said. At the king’s frown, the advisor corrected himself. “You shouldn’t, I mean, not unless you want the thief guilds to thoroughly destroy the Trifect. Without their mercenaries they are vulnerable. Their house guards do well to protect their estates, but everything else, from their warehouses to their trade caravans, is protected by men bought by their coin.”

“Why should I give a rat’s ass about their coin?” Edwin shouted. He turned and struck the mirror with his sword, pleased at how it shattered. “I could tax every shred of wealth from their hide if I wanted to. If they’re so frightened of our city’s vermin, then let them flee to one of their hundred different holds strewn throughout Dezrel.”

There was only one card left to play, a trump card with a dangerous cost attached to it.

“If you do that, my king, then you will be signing your own death warrant,” Gerand said.

The king grew shockingly quiet. He sheathed his sword and stared at his advisor with crossed arms.

“How so?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Because Thren Felhorn thinks you attempted to kill his son. He will neither forgive, nor forget. Once the Trifect is dealt with, he will turn his focus on you.”

“He won’t dare strike at a king,” Edwin said.

“He will,” Gerand said. “He has before.”

The king’s eyes widened with understanding.

“My father…”

“There is a reason you became king so young, your majesty. Thren needed instability in the castle to set up his war against the Trifect. You were close enough in age to retain rule, yet young enough to not wield full power for several years. Your mother died from poison, your father a slit throat.”

Edwin’s hands trembled.

“Why did you not tell me this?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t want you to do something that might cost you your life. Your majesty.”

The king pointed a shaking finger at Gerand, the tip waving in front of his nose.

“You damn, manipulative fool,” he nearly shouted. “You told me Robert would just teach the boy, and while he did he’d inform us of whatever he might overhear. How the abyss did that turn into an attempt on the boy’s life?”

Gerand remained silent. An errant word now might cost him his life. No doubt the guards stationed on the other side of the bedchamber doors were already drawing their blades.

“You will answer me,” Edwin ordered.

“Yes, your majesty,” Gerand said, knowing his fate was sealed. “I ordered his son, Aaron, to be captured. We failed. I thought with him as a hostage, we might force an end to the squabbles between the Trifect and the guilds.”

The king struck him with the back of his hand. Gerand fell to one knee, his head throbbing from where the king’s many rings had left deep imprints on his skin. The scar on his face ached, and when he touched it, he felt warm blood on his fingers.

“This needs to be handled, immediately,” King Vaelor said. “I can bear the Trifect, their wealth and their arrogance. Castle walls and guards protect me from their mercenaries. But I will not have some sewer vermin kill me over your mistake, especially that heartless bastard, Felhorn. We know their plans for the Kensgold. Turn that against them.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Gerand said.

“Oh, and if you should fail…”

Gerand stopped and turned around, his hand still against the door.

“If I fail, I will willingly go to Thren, kneel at his feet, and announce my guilt in the attempt against his son.”

The king beamed as if he couldn’t be more pleased.

“See, that’s why you’re such a great advisor,” he said, and he meant it.

Idiot, thought Gerand as he exited the bedchambers.

T hey walked south for over an hour before Theo Kull’s encampment came into view.

“A warm fire, thick blankets, and thank the gods, horses,” said Yoren.

“Charming,” Alyssa said as he held her hand. She felt his grip tighten, and she wasn’t at all surprised when it slid up to latch onto her wrist.

“Behave yourself,” he told her. “I might suffer your barbed tongue in front of my father, but I’ll make you pay tenfold when we retire for the evening.”

Safely out of sight from the city’s walls and the prying eyes within, Theo’s camp stretched out for several hundred yards. Wagons formed its outer perimeter, some covered, some not. Several fires blazed within the circle. One side were twenty smaller tents, shelters for the mercenaries. On the other was a single large pavilion of a faded green color.