Себастьян Кастелл - Traitor's Blade

Pretend, just for a moment, that you have attained your most deep-seated desire. Not the simple, sensible one you tell your friends about, but the dream that’s so close to your heart that even as a child you hesitated to speak it out loud. Imagine, for example, that you had always yearned to be a Greatcoat, one of the legendary sword-wielding magistrates who travelled from the lowliest village to the biggest city, ensuring that any man or woman, high or low, had recourse to the King’s Laws. A protector to many – maybe even a hero to some. You feel the thick leather coat of office around your shoulders, the deceptively light weight of its internal bone plates that shield you like armour and the dozens of hidden pockets holding your tools and tricks and esoteric pills and potions. You grip the sword at your side, knowing that as a Greatcoat you’ve been taught to fight when needed, given the training to take on any man in single combat.

Now imagine you have attained this dream – in spite of all the improbabilities laid upon the world by the ill-intentioned actions of Gods and Saints alike. So you have become a Greatcoat – in fact, dream bigger: pretend that you’ve been made First Cantor of the Greatcoats, with your two best friends at your side. Now try to envision where you are, what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing, what wrong you are fighting to right—

‘They’re fucking again,’ Brasti said.

I forced my eyes open and took in a bleary view of the inn’s hallway, an overly ornate – if dirty – corridor that reminded you that the world was probably a nice place once but had now gone to rot. Kest, Brasti and I were guarding the hallway from the comfort of decaying chairs taken from the common room downstairs. Opposite us was a large oak door that led to Lord Tremondi’s rented room.

‘Let it go, Brasti,’ I said.

He gave me what was intended to be a withering look, though it wasn’t very effective: Brasti’s a little too handsome for anyone’s good, including his own. Strong cheekbones and a wide mouth clothed in a reddish-blond short beard amplify a smile that gets him out of most of the fights he talks his way into. His mastery of the bow gets him through the rest. But when he tries to stare you down, it just looks like he’s pouting.

‘Let what go, pray tell?’ he said. ‘The fact that you promised me the life of a hero when you tricked me into joining the Greatcoats and instead I find myself impoverished, reviled and forced to take lowly bodyguard work for travelling merchants? Or is it the fact that we’re sitting here listening to our gracious benefactor – and I use the term loosely since he has yet to pay us a measly black copper – but that aside, that we’re listening to him screw some woman for – what? The fifth time since supper? How does that fat slob even keep up? I mean—’

‘Could be herbs,’ Kest interrupted, stretching his muscles out again with the casual grace of a dancer.

‘Herbs?’

Kest nodded.

‘And what would the so-called “greatest swordsman in the world” know about herbs ?’

‘An apothecary sold me a concoction a few years ago, supposed to keep your sword-arm strong even when you’re half-dead. I used it fighting off half a dozen assassins who were trying to kill a witness.’

‘And did it work?’ I asked.

Kest shrugged. ‘Couldn’t really tell. There were only six of them, after all, so it wasn’t much of a test. I did have a substantial erection the whole time though.’

A pronounced grunt followed by moaning came from behind the door.

‘Saints! Can they not just stop and go to sleep?’

As if in response, the groaning grew louder.

‘You know what I find odd?’ Brasti went on.

‘Are you going to stop talking at any point in the near future?’ I asked.

Brasti ignored me. ‘I find it odd that the sound of a nobleman rutting is hardly distinguishable from one being tortured.’

‘Spent a lot of time torturing noblemen, have you?’

‘You know what I mean. It’s all moans and grunts and little squeals, isn’t it? It’s indecent.’

Kest raised an eyebrow. ‘And what does decent rutting sound like?’

Brasti looked up wistfully. ‘More cries of pleasure from the woman, that’s for sure. And more talking. More, “Oh my, Brasti, that’s it, just there! Thou art so stout of heart and of body!”’ He rolled his eyes in disgust. ‘This one sounds like she’s knitting a sweater or cutting meat for dinner.’

‘“Stout of heart and body”? Do women really say that kind of thing in bed?’ Kest asked.

‘Try taking a break from practising alone with your sword all day and bed a woman and you’ll find out. Come on, Falcio, back me up here.’

‘It’s possible, but it’s been so damned long I’m not sure I can remember.’

‘Yes, of course, Saint Falcio, but surely with your wife—?’

‘Leave it,’ I said.

‘I’m not – I mean—’

‘Don’t make me hit you, Brasti,’ Kest said quietly.

We sat there in silence for a minute or two as Kest glared at Brasti on my behalf and the noises from the bedroom continued unabated.

‘I still can’t believe he can keep going like that,’ Brasti started up again. ‘I ask you again, Falcio, what are we doing here? Tremondi hasn’t even paid us yet.’

I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. ‘Did you see his rings?’

‘Sure,’ Brasti said, ‘very big and gaudy. With a stone shaped like a wheel on top.’

‘That’s a Lord Caravaner’s ring – which you’d know if you’d paid attention to the world around you. It’s what they use to seal their votes when they have their annual concord – one ring, one vote. Not every Lord Caravaner shows up for the concord each year, so they have the option of lending their ring to another to act as their proxy in all the major votes. Now, Brasti, how many Lords Caravaner are there in total?’

‘Nobody knows for sure, it’s—’

‘Twelve,’ Kest said.

‘And how many of his fingers had one of those gaudy rings on them?’

Brasti stared at his own fingers. ‘I don’t know – four … five?’

‘Seven,’ Kest said.

‘Seven,’ I repeated.

‘So that means he could … Falcio, what is it exactly that the Concord of Lords Caravaner is going to vote on this year?’

‘Lots of things,’ I said casually. ‘Rates of exchange, dues, trade policies. Oh, and security.’

‘Security?’

‘Since the Dukes killed the King, the roads have fallen into disrepair. The Dukes won’t spend money or men, not even to defend the trade routes, and the Lords Caravaner are losing a fortune on private security for every single trip they take.’

‘And we care about this why?’

I smiled. ‘Because Tremondi’s going to propose that the Greatcoats become the Wardens of the Road, giving us authority, respect, and a decent life in exchange for keeping their precious cargoes out of the hands of the bandits.’