Authors: Miles Cameron
‘I see you wear a sword,’ the Duke continued.
‘I’ve told him it’s a foolish thing for a practitioner,’ Baldesce said.
The Duke smiled. ‘I’ve never found it that foolish,’ he answered, and then ruined his patronising look with a heavy sneeze.
He walked from Mortirmir to the Patriarch, who allowed him to kiss his ring. ‘There goes a most entertaining young man,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Very late to his power – very powerful, I think. Perhaps not the most powerful in his class, but very bright. A pleasure to test.’ He bowed and led them down another corridor, this one a row of cloisters facing into a beautiful courtyard with four quince trees trained to heavy wooden screens. One was in flower; one was just budding, one was in fruit, and one was green and empty.
The Patriarch led them along the cloisters and into a small office with a single massive desk covered in books and scrolls. ‘Find room where you can,’ he said, a little absently. ‘How can I help you, my lord Duke?’
‘Holy father, I’ve come—’ the Duke was looking at a scroll. ‘This is an
original
copy of Hereklitus?’ he said. ‘But the
Suda
says he offered his book as a sacrifice to Artemis!’
The Patriarch smiled. ‘The
Suda
says a great many foolish things. You read High Archaic?’
‘Very slowly, Holy Father.’ His finger was following his eyes.
Ser Alcaeus tried to attract his Captain’s attention.
Father Arnaud stood rigid as a board.
The Patriarch looked at Father Arnaud. ‘You are a knight of Saint Thomas, I think?’
‘Yes, Holy Father,’ the chaplain said. ‘A priest.’
‘A priest? That must be very difficult, Father. The teachings of Jesus are not easy to reconcile with violence.’ The Patriarch leaned forward. ‘Or how does it seem to you?’
Father Arnaud bowed. ‘I have had struggles,’ he admitted.
The Patriarch nodded. ‘You would be a mere brute if you had not.’ But he seemed well satisfied, and offered his ring to the priest to kiss.
‘Ser Alcaeus,’ he said. ‘How is your lady mother? Busy hatching plots?’
Rather than taking offence, Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘Truthfully, Holy Father, she is too busy to hatch the least plot. Her only plot now is to save the Empire.’
The Patriarch raised an eyebrow at this but he chuckled warmly and turned to the Duke. ‘You must pardon me, my lord, but Alcaeus was one of my students – not much of a practitioner, but a fine mind and a very able poet, when he chooses to use his powers for good. He wrote many scurrilous verses about his teachers.’
Alcaeus writhed.
The Patriarch’s heavily lidded eyes fell back on the Duke.
‘Surely you can read faster than that,’ he said.
The Duke looked up. ‘The Academy is choosing to remain neutral,’ he said.
Alcaeus blanched.
The Duke went on, ‘The University’s neutrality is close to treason, Holy Father. The Emperor has been taken, and the traitor who took him has already offered to sell a portion of the Empire to get what he wants. The Emperor’s own magister, who must have been appointed by the Academy, has proven a traitor. He is a man of exceptional power. Why is the Academy so chary of taking sides?’
The Patriarch’s face gave nothing away. ‘I’m sorry that you feel we’ve been neutral,’ he said carefully. ‘The Academy is at the service of the palace – now and any time in the future.’
‘Couldn’t you have prevented the Emperor’s capture?’ the Duke asked. He sat up. ‘At least one of your astrologers must have predicted it.’
The Patriarch steepled his fingers. ‘And we informed the palace.’ He made a motion with his hands. ‘Sadly, through Master Aeskepiles, who really is a traitor – to the palace, and to his training. But that is not the fault of the Church or the University.’ He leaned forward. ‘You are a mage yourself,’ he said. ‘But something about you is quite odd – as if you have two souls.’
The Duke leaned back.
Hide.
Silence . . .
‘I had a tutor in the
ars magicka
who was trained here. I practise when I can.’ The Duke nodded. ‘If I had any time at all, I’d ask to attend some classes.’
‘The capture of another soul is necromancy, is heresy and is an illegal hermetical act,’ the Patriarch said. He leaned forward. ‘Is that another soul I sense?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the Duke lied smoothly.
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes.
‘Holy Father, if I were a daemon I’d hardly have strolled into your office . . .’
The Patriarch leaned back and laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder. But it may just be my age. Sometimes I sense doubles in the
aethereal
.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘And sometimes I sense heresy where there is none. You bear the reputation as the very spawn of Satan, despite saving Lissen Carrak from the Wild.’
‘Really?’ asked the Duke. ‘I also saved this city from treason, I believe. And my people have been attacked by hermeticism – right here, under your very nose, Holy Father.’
The Patriarch leaned back. ‘I am hardly your foe, here.’
The Duke nodded. ‘I never thought you were. May we speak privately?’
Father Arnaud led the procession out of the Patriarch’s private office.
The two men were entirely amicable when they emerged. The Patriarch held the Duke’s arm, they embraced, and then the Duke kissed the Patriarch’s ring.
‘Save the Emperor,’ the Patriarch said.
‘I’m doing all I can,’ said the Duke.
Father Arnaud stepped forward. ‘Holy Father, I have a message from Prior Wishart.’
The Patriarch nodded. ‘I have never met him, but he has a great reputation. Yet your order has, in the past, remained aloof from us and even leaned towards Rhum.’
Father Arnaud merely held the scroll out and said nothing.
The Patriarch laughed. ‘Old men will go on,’ he allowed, and took the scroll. He read quickly, and then looked over the top of the scroll at the Duke. ‘The King of Alba is appointing a Scholastic Bishop of Lorica?’ he said.
The Duke was, for once, obviously taken aback. He glared at Father Arnaud and bowed to the prelate. ‘My apologies. I had no idea.’
The Patriarch tapped the scroll on his teeth. ‘I will see you in less than a week. Let me think on this. ‘He raised a hand and made a full benediction. ‘Go with God.’
That was far too close.
Harmodius, you are becoming a liability.
I’m working on it!
The old man shook the head of his statue.
I’m finally in a town where I can buy things I need. Things you need. I just need more time.
Old man, you have taught me well; you have saved the company at least once; without you, I’d have lost the siege at Lissen Carak. But my headaches are worse every day, and I’m starting to make mistakes – mistakes that will kill people I love.
I just need more time. A few weeks. Must I beg?
No
, said the Red Knight.
Harmodius made an extra effort to go deep.
When they left the Patriarch, the Duke took his friends shopping. Ser Michael and a deeply blushing Kaitlin met them at the foot of the Academy steps, as did Ser Gavin and Ser Thomas and Ser Alison. They all wore a minimum of armour – just breastplates – and carried swords and wore their jewels. They were attended by forty pages in the scarlet company livery, and even though they were riding almost every horse the company possessed, they looked very capable.
‘Look rich and dangerous,’ he told them.
Shopping in the city was an endless set of nested choices – tables of wares and booths and shops with polished hardwood walls and glass – real glass – in the windows, or small stalls made of hand-woven carpets from the far east, or simply a rude box of barn boards. There was a square of jewellers, a square of glovers, a square of sword smiths and a square of armourers, of silk weavers, of tailors, of veil makers, of perfumers.
The ostensible purpose of the expedition was to buy everything required for a wedding, but the Duke clearly had his own agenda, and in the square of the jewellers, he led them to the most elegant shop in the middle of the long block, where he was received like a visiting prince. He turned to Ser Michael and took him by the hand. ‘You are rich,’ he said. ‘Buy this beautiful young woman a trinket or two.’
‘With what?’ Michael spat.
‘Just choose some things,’ the Duke said, and followed his host through a door which closed behind him.
Sauce, of all people, chose a comb with red and green enamel. The comb depicted two knights locked in mortal combat – dagger to dagger – in lovingly detailed harness, and she took off her hat, put it in her hair, and smiled into a mirror – and then closed her mouth to hide the missing teeth. ‘How much?’ she asked.
A shop boy was sent for sweet tea.
Ser Michael found his lady-love a wild rose in gold and garnets. She loved it, and he loved her. He put it on the padded silver tray.
Ser Gavin wandered from shelf to shelf, and finally chose a pair of bodkins for lacing and a set of buttons – cunning, tiny buttons for a lady’s gown, all filigree with tiny bells hidden inside that made a lustrous sound.
The other knights tried not to damage anything.
The Duke emerged with a tight smile, and he and the jeweller embraced. He examined Ser Michael’s choices and his smile grew broader.
‘On my tab,’ he said quietly.
Sauce paid in hard silver and softer gold, from a bag she produced.
Ser Michael noted that Sauce and the Captain exchanged a long glance as the bag was closed and she stowed it away.
In the square of the glovers, all discipline broke down, and the knights began to spend money like the mercenaries they were. Gloves were one of a soldier’s most precious possessions – along with boots, an item upon which a man’s comfort depended utterly. Good gloves were essential under gauntlets and just as necessary for archers.
Master Baldesce, Master Mortirmir and the nuns were also buying gloves, and by a gradual process of social osmosis, they were absorbed into the company and joined the knights, squires and pages at a tavern for wine.
The Duke walked from cup to cup, dipping the point of his roundel dagger into each pitcher before the wine was served, and the pages served it themselves. Michael could see his Captain was taking no chances.
Young Baldesce turned to Mortirmir. ‘He’s a magister! Look at his casting. Clean!’
Master Mortirmir watched the Duke’s simple working with an avid curiosity.
After wine, they visited armourers. The Captain went from shop to shop for an hour, and while Kaitlin might have been bored, her husband-to-be entertained her by singing romances in a street-side wineshop. A pair of Morean street singers were attracted – they listened first, and then began to play accompaniment so good that all the knights who weren’t avid for new armour applauded, and the pages were smitten. Then the street singers sang. The knights distributed largesse, and by the time the Captain had been carefully measured for a new breast and back in hardened steel, a small theatre had been set up and one of the ancient plays was being performed by a troupe of mimes in antic clothes.
Kaitlin, despite her pregnancy and fatigue, was delighted.
The Duke stopped by the singers and engaged them for the wedding party, and the actors as well. He paid them a fair amount of money, which was as well, because all of them subsequently received visits from Bad Tom that might have caused them to question their luck.
Every knight, man-at-arms and page had his sword sharpened in the street of cutlers, and the young Etruscan watched, delighted, as twenty mercenary swordsmen tested blades, so that wherever one looked, there was the soft slip of a balanced blade through the air – wrist cuts, overhand thrusts, imbrocattae. The sword smiths earned more hard coin in an hour than they usually saw in two weeks.
The Duke prowled the street like a predator in search of prey, swishing an arming sword through the air, admiring a brilliantly made Tartar sabre in green leather, fondling a roundel dagger – until he settled on one shop which was neither grander nor shabbier than the rest.
He went in. There were a dozen swords on the walls, and he could see the workshops built into the stone of the hillside beyond and smell the fires and the metallic odour the grinding wheels gave off. The master cutler came out in person, wiping his hands. He was small, wiry, and looked more like a schoolmaster than a smith.
Ser Michael stood at the Duke’s shoulder. He was part of an impromptu conspiracy – with Tom and Sauce and Gavin – to keep the Captain under their eyes all the time. He was odder than usual; too often drunk, and too often irritable.
But not in the cutler’s shop. There, he was more elated.
‘You make the best blades,’ the Duke said.
The cutler pursed his lips. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, as if it displeased him. ‘That is, Maestro Plaekus makes them, and I turn them into weapons.’ He frowned again. ‘What is it you want?’
There followed a long exchange. Apprentices ran for wooden forms, for swords – at one point, a dagger was borrowed from a Morean nobleman’s house two streets way.
In the end, the Duke settled on a length, a hilt, a pommel, blade shape, a cross section, a weight. And a matching basilard.
‘Jewels?’ the cutler asked.
Michael had seldom seen so much disdain packed into one word.
‘No,’ said the Duke. ‘Ghastly idea. But red enamel. Red scabbard.’ He smiled. ‘Red everything. And gold.’
The cutler nodded wearily. ‘Of course, gold.’
The Duke leaned forward. Michael saw the change – a subtle change in body language, a change in tone. He didn’t know what it meant, but he’d seen it happen once or twice.
‘May I ask a personal question?’ the Duke said.
The cutler raised an eyebrow, as if the ways of the gentry and the killers who bought his wares were so alien that he couldn’t be expected to know what was next. ‘Let’s ee, my lord,’ he said smoothly.
‘Wasn’t the Emperor’s magister once one of your apprentices?’ the Duke asked.
The cutler sighed. ‘Aye.’ His Morean was difficult to follow, accented the way the Morean islanders spoke. ‘He was here twenty years.’ He frowned. ‘More than an apprentice.’