The Path of Anger (52 page)

‘Daguaret defended your law on education,’ noted Viola.

‘Yes. But I bought his support,’ smiled de Page as he scrutinised the crowd advancing ahead of them. ‘That man has always put a price on ideas.’

‘What about El Chaval?’ wondered the young woman, looking away.

They passed in front of three men in yellow masks who were involved in a quiet discussion, glasses of wine in their hands. With his hair tied back in a ponytail, an affable air and a well-built body, El Chaval was nodding nervously.

‘He’s conceited and vulgar but there’s no denying his passion,’ said de Page. ‘Although he is a believer, he’s not in favour of a Republic under the thumb of the Order of Fangol. He has an honest position, even if it’s not one I share. They haven’t approached him.’

His father had told him; he had screamed it at him, propped up on his elbows, before his heart gave out.

‘You’ll have no place in this world, Gregory! You and your vices will be judged in the eyes of the gods, because no one can be freed from what was written. The
Liaber Dest
has been found again!’

The image of that face twisted in hatred, the lips quivering with rage, and the spittle at their corners, had haunted him ever since. It wasn’t simply a question of
power
that had prompted his father and the Azdekis to murder Oratio and co-opt his cherished Republic. It had always been their religious creed. Perhaps some had seen all this as progress – giving people a say in their lives – but that wasn’t what mattered to the conspirators. The only thing that counted for them was the word of the gods and that dwelled in the Sacred Book which the Reyes dynasty had taken such care to hide away.

‘To your right,’ murmured Viola.

De Page tilted his head slightly as a group of Fangolin monks passed by. With their hoods drawn over their heads and their hands joined before them, they were heading towards a door on the opposite side of the courtyard, flanked by four halberdiers.

On the threshold, councillors were gathering without exchanging a single word. As de Page had been expecting, Daguaret accompanied Rhunstag and Bernevin. Under the cover of the uproarious celebrations, no one noticed the group forming in front of Etienne Azdeki. The latter was standing on the porch looking out across the inner courtyard with a steely gaze, his hands behind his back. It was a calm, dignified pose. The monks joined his group.

Not one statesman present had escaped de Page’s attention, not a single one. He knew exactly who the enemies of the Republic were and any who survived this evening would not emerge unscathed. He would make certain none of them ever exercised power again.

‘This is the moment, isn’t it?’ whispered Viola, gripping his arm more tightly.

De Page nodded briefly. The courtyard was swarming with guests, many already drunk. If a tragedy occurred the ensuing panic would be total and, more importantly, impossible to control. De Page raised his head towards the balconies, where he could make out a familiar silhouette behind a column. Laerte was ready, the golden mask sparkling in the torchlight. Out of the corner of his eye the duke glimpsed Rogant between a buffet table and the doors leading to the
ballroom. As for Aladzio . . . the inventor was nervously threading a path through the guests, face hidden behind a fox mask, his tricorne jammed on his head. Everything was coming together perfectly.

‘This evening, my friends, this evening!’ called a voice.

De Page stiffened.

With in the crowd the tricorne seemed to slip between the tall head-dresses and baroque masks. Laerte tracked it until Aladzio extricated himself from the mob. After exchanging a few words with Azdeki he entered the Palatio, but not without giving a brief glance over his shoulder. At Laerte’s feet the mercenary was dipping the point of an arrow towards the oil lamp.

‘This evening, my friends, this evening!’

He nocked the arrow and raised his eyes towards the man in the golden mask, waiting for him to drop his hand.

‘It’s a wonderful evening!’

But Laerte was still, as if paralysed. His heart seemed to stop beating as a man in the courtyard helped a young woman to climb onto the barrels.

‘For to the joy of this Republican night has been added the sublime happiness of my marriage. My wife—’

Her purple gown hugged her full curves, a star-like medallion hung on her bosom, and her carmine lips enhanced the whiteness of her smile. Behind her mask beaded with gold and silver, her almond eyes shone with tears which finally spilled, taking with them a little of the black kohl lining her eyes. She laughed as she took her place on top of the barrels as if upon a stage, one hand holding her husband’s.

‘Esyld Azdeki, show yourself to the world!’ shouted Balian Azdeki.

‘Sir?’ murmured a voice at Laerte’s feet.

Balian took off his wolf mask to look out at the crowd before him, spreading his arms. Intoxicated by alcohol, he was relishing this moment.

‘Thank you all for being here on this day. Long live the Republic!’

The applause boomed like massed war drums. Laerte felt his hand tremble.

‘Sir, I’m ready,’ hissed the mercenary.

Beneath his eagle’s head, Azdeki watch the scene from the porch with satisfaction. His son, so happy, was bowing to Esyld to the
sound of cheers from the guests. No one was paying attention to the councillors passing through the doorway or to the monks who followed, disappearing with in the Palatio.

Upon the barrels, Esyld was thanking the crowd, bowing to the left, bowing to the right, laughter bursting from her lips, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment . . . or with joy. Laerte felt the weight of his mask, his breathing becoming laboured, his muscles rigid and his stomach tied in knots as he watched. Although she was walking across the barrels of wine, the ones stacked behind her were filled with powder. A single spark and . . .

De Page was darting worried glances towards Rogant, standing by the doors to the corridor, and towards the balconies where he could still see the motionless silhouette.
The attack, Laerte
, he thought.
Give the signal! Go on!

Clinging to his arm, Viola tugged the duke forward slightly as if she were about to intervene. But what could she do? Soldiers had pushed back the Nâaga guarding the wine barrels and were flanking Balian and his wife. Viola had no means of drawing them away. The idea that everything they’d worked for might come to a halt right then and there crept in to his mind, leaving him despondent. He raised his eyes again to the balcony where Laerte waited, hoping to see a movement there.

‘We’re running out of time, sir,’ the mercenary said anxiously.

Laerte heard his voice as if from a great distance. His hand was still raised. His heart . . .

The councillors had all filed through the double doors.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ cried the crowd. ‘Long live the newlyweds! Bravo!’

The halberdiers posted themselves before the doors as Azdeki stepped back. One of the guards climbed the steps and closed one of the panels. Azdeki vanished and the soldier approached the second panel.

Still standing on the barrels, Esyld was looking at her husband with such tenderness, her hands folded over her chest.

Laerte’s hand remained raised.

The soldier pulled the second door panel shut.

‘Sir!’

‘It goes much further than that.’

With his right hand, Laerte gripped Eraëd. Everything seemed confusing to him. And in the din of clapping hands, he heard a hammering noise, like drumming. Muffled at first . . . then more and more distinct, until he could finally identify it as the clattering of hooves on marble. Even in the thunder of applause, a few masks had turned towards the hall of mirrors, intrigued by the ringing of iron on stone. The staccato rhythm continued to rise in volume, accompanied by the barking of orders in its wake. At the opposite side of the courtyard, the double doors were shut. Even if Laerte unleashed the attack now the conspirators, alerted by the sound of fighting, would have plenty of time to flee before he could find them in the Palatio’s maze of hallways.

‘It’s about the path you chose to take.’

Most of the crowd was still applauding the bride and groom. Esyld looked radiant. Balian Azdeki approached the barrels, catching hold of his lady love’s hand to bring it to his lips. The sound of hooves drew closer, a continuous drum roll now, stronger, more menacing. And with it, the bawling of angry orders.

‘And what if you come across Esyld this evening? Will you give in to your anger?’

Hooves against marble, screaming . . . and a voice, stern and hoarse, filled the courtyard like a clap of thunder.

‘
Azdeki!
’

14

THE PATH OF ANGER

Dun-Cadal had forced Laerte to kneel before him, a firm hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. The pain of the impact stabbed Laerte’s knees but, gritting his teeth, he did not cry out. He knew he was being observed, judged, and not for anything in the world would he betray any sign of weakness. His face must not reveal anything. His heart was pounding and sweat beaded at his temples. He would hold out. The knights were assembled in a semi-circle about him, wearing polished armour that gleamed in the morning sunshine. Behind them stood the tall, pure-white statues of the divinities, their expressionless gazes directed down at the altar.

Across the stained-glass windows, colourful representations of knights fought monsters and demons, rouargs and dragons, protecting frightened families with drawn swords.

‘For faults committed,’ said Dun-Cadal.

He slapped Laerte so hard that the young man felt his neck crack.

‘And so that you shall commit no more, Frog.’

His other cheek burned beneath another powerful blow, so hard his head seemed ready to detach itself from the rest of his body. He could taste blood where his teeth had bitten down on his lip. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He inhaled deeply, his jaws tightly clenched.

‘Repeat after me,’ ordered Dun-Cadal. ‘I am the sword, I am the shield.’

‘I am the sword,’ mumbled Laerte.

‘Louder!’

‘I am the sword!’ he began again, raising his eyes towards his mentor. ‘I am the shield.’

‘I am he who does not weaken,’ Dun-Cadal continued, beneath the stern gazes of his brothers-in-arms.

‘I am he who does not weaken.’

‘I am the sword against the mighty. The shield for the meek. My word is gold. I shall not renege on it. I am he who marches into combat. My path is that of the just. I shall not falter. I am he who marches into combat.’

Laerte repeated the words aloud while Dun-Cadal drew his sword and placed it briskly upon his apprentice’s shoulder.

‘I am the sword and the shield, that is my sole path. Nothing shall ever restrain my arm.’

‘. . . nothing shall ever restrain my arm,’ Laerte finished in one breath.

He could not stop himself from closing his eyelids when Dun-Cadal lifted the sword before bringing the flat of the blade smashing down on his right shoulder. Laerte gritted his teeth.

‘I free you from who you once were. He no longer matters.’

He sensed the sword passing over his head. Then the pain from the blow to his left shoulder made him open his eyes.

‘Repeat after me,’ his mentor demanded again. ‘I hereby pledge my oath. . .’

‘I hereby pledge my oath. . .

‘To never take the path of anger, to always serve justice with honour and righteousness. To be a knight, among knights, and in good faith.’

‘. . . and in good faith,’ concluded Laerte, with a lump in his throat. In the shadows and light of the chapel, Dun-Cadal’s face bent down towards his, grave and proud.

‘I name thee: Sir Frog.’

‘I name thee: Sir . . .’

‘Azdeki! You scum!’

The horse reared as it burst into the courtyard, its hide bristling with spears and dripping rivers of blood. Men and women, terrorised, scattered screaming when the knight was thrown into the air and fell heavily to the ground, wheezing mightily. His mount’s hooves fell back to the ground. It was, snorting frantically, and then convulsed and collapsed onto its flank, tongue hanging from its open mouth. Behind it soldiers came running, caught short by the
sudden charge. They had seen the rider come tearing through the crowd in the square outside and leap the palace steps, sweeping the air with his sword. Some of them had tried to stand in his way, but the panicked horse had reared and kicked repeatedly. The spears had only maddened it further. And its rider had led it to its death, here in the courtyard.

Dun-Cadal struggled to pick himself up from the ground, still dazed, and bellowing, he sought to find the pommel of the sword lying beside him.

‘Azdeki! By the gods! Show yourself!’

Drawing his own sword, Balian Azdeki helped Esyld climb down from the barrels and she was immediately encircled by soldiers. Guards were now pouring into the courtyard, ready to pounce on the intruder, while the crowd, still reeling in surprise, wavered between fear and curiosity. An old man urging a councillor to come out and face him, wearing worn-out armour held together by aging leather straps, seemed more like theatrics than a real threat.

In one corner of the courtyard, de Page was finding the situation not to his liking. Rogant joined him in the pandemonium caused by the general’s impromptu arrival and the Nâaga begged him to leave the scene, grasping his arm to push de Page and Viola towards the hall of mirrors.

Out in the middle of the open space, Dun-Cadal faced his opponents, gathering his wits, a strange smile playing across his lips. He felt himself being restored to life. Although his bones ached from the fall and reminded him of his age, he hoped to show the world what sort of warrior he really was. To do it one last time. The guards surrounded him, their spears pointed in a menacing fashion. He had a sensation of déjà vu, and his smile faltered.

‘Your Imperial Majesty, he’s still just a child! You have no right!’

The torches sputtered. There was no more laughter, no more music, nothing but a charged silence. Balian passed through the circle of guards, his weapon in his fist.

‘Arrest this man!’ he commanded.

‘You, blondie, should wait until your voice deepens before giving orders like that,’ sneered Dun-Cadal, before raising his own voice. ‘It’s Etienne Azdeki –
Captain
Azdeki – I’ve come for! Azdeki! Show yourself!’

The guards hesitated as the shadow of a man emerged from
between the double doors. On the threshold of the hall of mirrors, on the other side of the courtyard, de Page paused. Beside him, Viola seemed lost, glancing at the barrels piled on the platform before meeting Rogant’s determined gaze.

‘Leave now,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t interfere,’ ordered de Page, giving him a black look.

‘I won’t need to,’ the Nâaga assured him, his face grim.

De Page could not be associated with what was about to happen. Whether it succeeded or failed, no one could learn of the duke’s role in this operation. Not simply for his own protection, but because of what would ensue from this night. Rogant followed the duke and Viola with his eyes and when they disappeared at the end of the hallway he slipped behind one of the door panels at the entrance.

‘Azdeki!’ Dun-Cadal yelled again.

He swung his sword, almost dropping it. This would not be easy. The gesture no longer came naturally to him and it had been a long time since he last fought in combat.

‘Do you hear me?’ exploded Balian. ‘I order you to arrest this man. He—’

‘Daermon . . .’

The voice had dragged slightly as if savouring the name. Standing on the threshold of the double doors, his eyes blazing behind his eagle mask, Etienne Azdeki tilted his head to the side, looking intrigued. At his back the shapeless mass of his uncle could be seen, wallowing in his large white toga.

‘Arrest him!’ repeated Balian.

The soldiers were ready to obey this time, but they had barely taken a step when Etienne Azdeki called out:

‘Wait!’

He came down the steps, one hand on the pommel of his sword, showing no sign of any emotion but curiosity. Feeling more self-assured, Dun-Cadal flashed him the grim smile of a man looking for a fight.

‘You weren’t expecting me, were you?’ he jeered. ‘Worried?’

‘I’m worried that an old wreck like you got through my doors so easily,’ replied Azdeki without losing his unruffled demeanour.

Murmurs of excitement ran through the assembled crowd, few of whom were deciding to leave the courtyard and miss the spectacle being played out there. But although the knight in armour was ready
for battle, the councillor remained indifferent to him. Still staring at Dun-Cadal he raised his voice:

‘How is this for a touch of Masque Night whimsy? A knight of the Empire has forced his way into the Palatio and ended up here! There’s nothing to fear from him. Look, he’s as rusty as his armour!’

‘Come and test that, Azdeki,’ proposed Dun-Cadal. ‘Come and pay for your crimes. You betrayed the Empire and now you’re planning to betray the Republic.’

He swung his sword again, but this time the movement was slow and precise, his hand gripping the hilt firmly.

‘So the old dog still has some teeth,’ murmured Azdeki, his lips twisted in disdain, before he addressed the crowd again. ‘Please accept my apologies for this incident, it is more spectacular than dangerous! Amuse yourselves, there’s no need for concern!’

‘Let the celebration continue!’ Rhunstag called from behind him.

The guards approached the general cautiously under the supervision of Balian, standing by the platform. Only a few feet away from him, dwarfed between two massive halberdiers, Esyld watched the scene, her face completely white. The councillor spun round and was about to pass back through the double doors when Dun-Cadal rumbled:

‘The
Liaber Dest
, Azdeki! Have you told them? Is Anvelin Evgueni Reyes still your prisoner? So explain to them, your guests, what awaits them all!’

Dun-Cadal pointed to the people gathered in the courtyard with the tip of his sword, noting the stir that his words caused with satisfaction. The murmurs grew louder and with them a strange uneasiness, fraught and oppressive. Azdeki had halted on the steps, his shoulders hunched and his body stiff. A word, just one, could be heard in all the whispers: the
Liaber
. . .

‘Let them try to stop me, nothing will prevent me from reaching you,’ Dun-Cadal promised.

Azdeki turned around, losing his haughty air. Furious, he pointed at Dun-Cadal and snarled at the soldiers, no more than a few feet away from the general.

‘Get this rubbish out of the courtyard! Chain him up!’

‘Come on, Azdeki, show me what you’re capable of,’ scowled Dun-Cadal as he slashed the air with his sword, darting a glance right and the left in anticipation of an attack by the soldiers.

The crowd was becoming agitated. The halberdiers urged Esyld to make her way towards the hall of mirrors and Balian was walking around the circle of soldiers.

‘Throw him in a gaol cell!’

‘Draw your sword! Be a knight!’

Their shouts covered the whistle of the arrow above their heads. Some caught a fleeting glimpse of the wavering flame and a trail of flying sparks.

‘You’re nothing, Daermon, you’re a dea—’

The steel tip split the wooden barrel. And everything exploded.

The fire took hold of the platform with a loud crackling as a thick black smoke rose from the debris. The power of the explosion had caused havoc, throwing Dun-Cadal to the ground and blasting the closest guests, while forcing the others to rush away from the blaze and into the extremities of the courtyard.

Laerte had leapt from the balustrade at the very moment the arrow had lodged itself in the barrel. Using the
animus
, he had landed noiselessly on the ground, feeling his body vibrate from the impact. He sensed the heartbeats of the general lying at his feet and, reassured, swept his gaze around the courtyard. Dun-Cadal slowly regained his wits, his fingers digging furrows in the gravel. As planned, the explosion has just been enough to sow confusion. In front of the doors Azdeki was waving at the smoke, trying to dissipate the thick acrid veil that was obscuring his vision. He didn’t see the arrows which sliced through the smoke to plant themselves in the throats of the halberdiers at his side.

And then a rain of steel fell on the courtyard, mowing down the men in arms. The panicked guests rushed towards the hall of mirrors, elbowing one another aside, trampling the poor wretches who still lay stunned on the ground and overturning tables. On the steps Azdeki seemed to be paralysed. The cries, the smell of the powder, the trickles of blood, the smoke rising in coils, all of it was sheer chaos . . . in the middle of which stood a man in a green cape.

Laerte waited, his hand on Eraëd’s pommel, the rapier’s point brushing the gravel. When he caught Azdeki’s gaze behind his eagle mask, he was triumphant. For the very first time he saw fear there.

‘You . . .’ he saw the man say. ‘It’s you . . .’

‘Oh buggering hell . . .’ grumbled Dun-Cadal as he stood up.

The courtyard was rapidly emptying. Among the wreaths of smoke and burnt, floating shreds of the awnings, a starry sky appeared. In the torchlight and glow of the flames still consuming the platform, the sword of the Emperors sparkled. Inert bodies, bristling with arrows, were strewn across the ground. All of them were wearing armour or studded leather vests, all of them were still gripping their sword or their halberd. None of them had detected the mercenaries on the balconies, who were now rising before the stupefied eyes of Etienne Azdeki.

Near the hall of mirrors, a few yards from the blasted platform, Esyld was kneeling on the ground, horror-struck, running a hand through Balian Azdeki’s dusty, dirt-streaked hair. An arrow jutted from his shoulder at the junction between his spaulder and the breastplate that slowly rose and fell in time with his breathing. He might have been asleep and suffering a nightmare, his mouth twisted in pain. The crackling of the flames covered the words his bride was murmuring to him. She raised her eyes to meet those behind the golden mask and her distraught expression suddenly vanished as anger tightened her features. Laerte eluded her gaze, his heart pierced.