Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (33 page)

The mask had no openings for Valiana’s ears or eyes; the grey landscape of its surface was broken only by three thin slits, each about an inch long; they had been cut into a wretched grin. ‘Keep squeezing my hand,’ I said. I kept my mouth close to those slits, hoping my voice would reach her, and almost immediately her fingers crushed mine. I ignored the pain and held on.

‘Could we not cut more holes into the mask?’ Tommer asked.

Kest shook his head. ‘Not without risking injury – and if we damage the mask, it might not curb the madness. We don’t yet know how it works . . .’

Ethalia reached out a hand towards the mask and her fingers began to twitch. ‘Kest is right. There is more than iron at work in this mask.’

Hells, but I hate magic.

‘Fine,’ Brasti said, ‘then let’s go and find whichever blacksmith made the damned thing and hang him from his toenails until he tells us who paid him to do it!’

‘There are likely more than a thousand blacksmiths spread across Tristia,’ Kest pointed out. ‘We could spend a decade looking, and even then, it’s entirely possible none of them made these masks – they could be artefacts from an older age.’

Aline rose from her chair and came to sit on Valiana’s other side. ‘How long can she stay like this?’

Kest, Brasti and I looked at each other, united by the foul memories of our early days in the Greatcoats, when the King sent us to cities and towns that had seen no real justice in decades. In the deepest cells of the Ducal prisons we had found men and women encased in devices not so very different to these masks. Their jailers trickled water and thin soup into their mouths each day, keeping them alive for years. And every time one of us had born witness to such depravity, we’d forced promises from each other for a clean death rather than a life entombed that way.

How long can she stay like this? Far too long.

Valiana’s hand felt very hot against the sudden cold of my own as I wondered how many days – or even hours – it would be before she was begging me to make that same promise to her. Could she survive a week like this before she was pleading with me to end her suffering?

The silence enveloping the room was broken by a distant grunt, followed by a heavy thump just outside the curtained windows. I let go of Valiana’s hand and got to my feet. Kest drew his warsword, grimacing in pain as he did. Brasti, his arm still bandaged from the wound he’d taken from the God’s Needle on the road, lifted his bow and awkwardly nocked an arrow.

Of course I’d been too distracted and too stupid to search for my rapiers, so I went to the table and grabbed the closest thing to a weapon that I could find, which turned out to be a small brass statuette of Roset, the deceased Duke of Luth. His arm was outstretched as if he were in the midst of delivering a magnificent speech.

Let’s hope you’re more eloquent in death than you were in life, your Grace.

One of the windows creaked open, but the heavy curtains muffled the voice that called out, ‘If Brasti’s in there, tell him not to shoot.’

‘Mateo?’ Brasti asked, easing his pull on the bowstring.

The purple and silver velvet parted to reveal Mateo Tiller, still dressed in his road-worn, dusty greatcoat, the scabbard of his curved falchion strapped to his back. He dropped down from the windowsill to the floor. ‘Well, well,’ he said, rising to his feet and wiping sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, ‘if it isn’t the Blade, the Arrow and the—’ He stopped and peered at me. ‘Should I call you the King’s Ugly Little Statue now, Falcio? Because I have to say, I think the old name worked better.’

I set the brass statuette back down on the table. ‘I have to ask, Mateo: what in hells are you doing climbing up the side of the Ducal Palace of Luth in broad daylight?’

‘And how did you manage it with an injured shoulder?’ Kest added.

‘Rather painfully, thanks to the arrow wound courtesy of the world’s most annoying archer.’ Slowly Mateo removed his coat, grunting in the process. ‘And to answer your question, First Cantor, I was climbing
down
from the roof, not up.’

‘You look like hell,’ Brasti said.

‘Yeah? You should see yourselves.’ Mateo grinned. ‘I’ve seen rotted corpses with more—’ He froze when his eyes landed on Valiana. ‘Saint Unas-who-makes-tears-burn,’ he swore, and then turned to me. ‘Where is the son of a bitch who did this to her and why haven’t you killed him yet?’

Kest tried to intervene. ‘She was driven mad by poison. It was the only—’

I cut him off. ‘It was me. I put the mask on her.’

I’m not sure what Mateo saw in my expression, but after a few seconds he let out a long breath. ‘I’m sorry. I just assumed—’

Ethalia strode to the table and picked up a jug of water. ‘This man’s shoulder is bleeding through his bandages.’ She pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit.

‘I’m just glad that the famed Brasti Goodbow missed my heart by half a mile.’

‘Those weren’t my usual arrows,’ Brasti insisted. ‘I’d had to grab the first ones I could find. I was just testing the range.’

‘That’s fine, you missed,’ Mateo said. ‘It happens, especially when you’re getting a little long in years.’

Ethalia began removing his shirt, revealing his lean, muscular frame, and the bloodstained bandages that covered one shoulder. ‘The stitches held, for the most part,’ she said after a moment, ‘but your acrobatics have stretched them and part of the wound has reopened.’

Brasti whispered to Kest and me, ‘We should consider the possibility that Mateo reopened his wounds on purpose.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Kest asked.

He gestured at the Greatcoat, who was smiling up at Ethalia. ‘So that he could show off his chest.’

‘Beautiful
and
commanding,’ Mateo said. ‘You are undoubtedly my favourite Saint, my Lady.’

‘I doubt that,’ she replied. ‘I’m the Saint of Mercy, not Gullibility.’ Despite the jibe, she smiled as she went about treating his wound, and I found myself absurdly jealous that touching him didn’t appear to produce the same pain that she experienced with me.

Maybe he’s just less bloodthirsty than you are.

‘I’ve cleaned the wound and tightened the stitches,’ she informed us after a few minutes, ‘but it needs a fresh bandage to keep out infection.’

‘Alas, I ran out of mine ages ago,’ he said.

Neither Kest nor I had ours, but finally Brasti unbuttoned his coat and reached inside. ‘Fine, use mine – but just so you know, Mateo, I was saving these for someone vastly more important.’

As Ethalia went about bandaging the wound, Aline said something into the slits in Valiana’s mask, and then came over to greet Mateo properly. ‘I never had the chance to thank you yesterday for helping to save my life.’

He gently pushed Ethalia’s hands aside and stood, managing as much dignity as a man can when he’s shirtless and dripping with his own blood. Looking at Aline this close set him to stammering, ‘I . . . I only just realised how much you look like the King.’

She smiled back at him, entranced.

‘We tried to find a less silly-looking monarch,’ I said, ‘but she was the best we could do on short notice.’

At first Mateo was aghast at my comment, then he caught Aline’s grin, and shared a look with the rest of us, filled with that same mixture of hope and grief that Aline brought to every Greatcoat: the joy of seeing our King in her, tempered by a bitter reminder of the man we’d lost.

Mateo tried to tilt his body forward in a bow, wincing as a grunt of pain escaped his lips.

‘Sir,’ Aline said, ‘that isn’t necessary! You needn’t—’

‘A Greatcoat doesn’t bow,’ Tommer interjected, his voice almost scolding, ‘not even to a King or Queen.’

‘This would be Tommer, son of the Duke of Rijou,’ Brasti said.

At the mention of Jillard, Mateo’s eyes grew suspicious, but he saw the look of raw admiration on Tommer’s face and grinned. ‘You are correct, of course. A Greatcoat needn’t kneel, even to a monarch.’ With substantial effort, Mateo bent at the waist before Aline. ‘But a gentleman
always
bows before great beauty.’

Brasti jostled Kest. ‘That’s a good line. Remind me to use that one when we go to the tavern later.’

Aline gave a curtsy that almost but not quite hid the blushing of her cheeks; it only faded as she moved back to sit with Valiana.

Tommer’s lips were moving silently and I realised suddenly that he too was intent on memorising Mateo’s slick turn of phrase. He saw us watching him and flushed red from embarrassment.

Mateo saved him, extending a hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Tommer of Rijou. I’m Mateo Tiller.’

Tommer shook hands with him excitedly, the grim sentry giving way to a teenage boy no longer able to contain himself. ‘I’ve seen your name in the Greatcoats’ Register – you’re the King’s Tongue!’

Mateo gave a rueful smile. ‘Not a name I chose for myself, I assure you.’ He looked at the boy and I saw him hesitate for a moment. ‘I . . . wonder if you might do me a small favour, Tommer.’

The boy stood arrow-straight. ‘I’d be honoured, sir.’

‘There is an important message I need delivered, something I can’t trust to just—’

‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Tommer may be Jillard’s son but he’s risked his life for Aline in the past and he considers Valiana his sister. Don’t use tricks to get him out of the room.’

Mateo glanced from me to the boy, then sighed. ‘Forgive me, Tommer, that was unworthy of me.’ He rose and put his bloodied shirt back on before addressing the rest of us. ‘I’m snuck down because I was wandering around the palace a little while ago when I spotted three members of the Ducal Council secreting themselves into the small library on the top floor.’

‘Why there?’ Kest asked. ‘There are surely more secure locations to meet in the palace.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Mateo said, ‘so, having nothing better to do, I decided a little judicious spying was in order. I found a staircase that led onto the roof and climbed down to an overhang outside the library window. I’ve spent the last two hours listening to them.’ He turned to me. ‘Falcio, they were in the library because that’s where the books of law are kept. The Dukes were writing up a decree to replace the Greatcoats.’

‘Replace us?’ Brasti asked. ‘With what?’

‘With whom,’ Kest corrected absently, his eyes fixed on Mateo, but the moment Brasti had asked the question, I knew the answer. Saints were being murdered, churches desecrated, pilgrims massed outside palace doors and we had failed to do anything about it.

‘The Cogneri,’ I said. ‘The Dukes are going to replace us with the Order of Inquisitors.’

There was a lot of shouting in the discussion that followed, most of it directed at the Dukes for betraying us, and a fair bit more at the Inquisitors, who we knew were indifferent to enforcing any laws save those that let them hunt down and punish heretics. A few times we even railed at the Gods themselves, for ever having created such a cesspool of a country. By unspoken consent, one particular group was left out of our recriminations: ourselves.

None of us wanted to admit the simple truth: in the past six months we had utterly failed to bring back anything resembling the rule of law to Tristia. What gains the country had made were due entirely to Valiana’s careful administration and her uncanny skill at navigating the politics of the nobility.

And what has the First Cantor of the Greatcoats accomplished? I run around the countryside chasing my shadow, always two steps behind, while the enemy destroys sanctuaries and kills the Saints.

‘I have a suggestion that I believe will solve all our problems,’ Brasti said. He slung his quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow. ‘How about I go and put an arrow through Quentis Maren’s heart?’

‘Do you have any actual evidence against this man?’ Mateo asked.

‘Absolutely!’ Brasti held out a hand and started tapping each finger in turn. ‘First, he’s a damned Inquisitor, so that should be enough of a reason. Second, he keeps trying to get control of Ethalia, supposedly for her own safety, but I think we can toss out that notion. Third, he and his men are too well armed for religious zealots. Fourth, he’s cleverer than Falcio, so he has the mind for it, and fifth . . .’ He paused, apparently having run out of reasons.

‘You do realise that Quentis has handled himself honourably until this point,’ Kest said.

Brasti jumped on that, tapping on his little finger. ‘Ah, exactly! I knew I’d forgotten one.’

Tommer stared up at him. ‘So behaving innocently is evidence of guilt?’

‘Of course it is,’ he replied. When no one spoke, he looked around at the rest of us as if we were idiots. ‘Am I really the only person who remembers Shuran? Strong? Smart? Capable?’ Brasti looked at Kest and me. ‘And so righteous the two of you were ready to duel over who got to marry him first.’

Aline, who’d been sitting quietly for some time, rose from the sofa. ‘So your proposed strategy, Brasti Goodbow, is that we should go out and kill anyone in a position of power who
isn’t
obviously corrupt?’

‘
Exactly
. Any man with power in this country who shows a shred of integrity is almost certainly a violent lunatic.’ He bowed theatrically. ‘Thus ends the only lesson in Tristian politics you’ll ever need as Queen.’

Aline looked over to me. ‘Why exactly did my father choose him to be a Greatcoat?’

‘Every village needs an idiot,’ I replied.

‘Fine,’ Brasti said, ‘mock me – ignore me. But when it turns out that the Inquisitor is secretly bedding Trin and that the two of them hatched this whole plot during a particularly rousing session of lovemaking, don’t expect me to save the day.’

The sound of Valiana banging her fist on the arm of the sofa caused us all to turn. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, going to her and trying to take hold of her arm. At first I feared the madness might be returning, but then she began gesturing with her hand, her thumb and two fingers pinched together.

‘I think she wants something to write with,’ Kest said after a moment, and started looking around the room for writing implements. Mateo eventually found what we needed inside an elaborate silver box that I suspected had been intended only for use during the signing of highly important treaties.