Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (53 page)

“Unhand her!”

“Your Highness,” said the man holding Yasmyn’s arms, “at least let the poor man finish his turn!”

“Stop now,” said Balthaar, “or I’ll cut him so that he never has a turn again.” The knights looked aggrieved, but not alarmed. They abandoned Yasmyn, the last knight regathering his pants. Yasmyn got off the table, straightened down her dress, and limped awkwardly across the grass to where Sofy was kneeling, Lord Elias still grasping her arm. Sofy feared Yasmyn might do something rash, yet she merely knelt, and recovered Sofy’s fallen robe, and placed it about her princess’s shoulders.

“Let her go,” Balthaar said. He did not look at Sofy. Neither did he call her Princess Regent, or attempt to remind Sir Elias of his duty of respect to one above his station. Sofy wondered if she had ever truly been more than a Lenay barbarian to these people. And if her husband’s seemingly loving gaze had been any more than the fascination of a wealthy man with an enchanting new bauble.

Sir Elias released Sofy’s arm, and Yasmyn helped her to her feet. Sofy felt a rush of shame. Yasmyn had been beaten and raped, yet now stood with dignity and assisted her weak, pathetic princess shakily to her feet. Sofy stood, and put an arm around Yasmyn to offer a support Yasmyn did not seem to need. Hugging her was out of the question. Nothing in Yasmyn’s manner invited it. Sofy knew enough of the Isfayen to know what that meant.

Balthaar said nothing more, nor asked it of Sir Elias. He merely stared, dark and foreboding.

“Her rabid sister killed my brother!”

“One person does you harm, and so you attack others,” Balthaar observed mildly. “Very clever.”

“They’re all the same!”

“And our allies,” said Balthaar, “by allegiance that Family Assineth agreed to. Do you not understand the concept of allegiance, Sir Elias?”

“These allies have done us murder upon our lands!” Elias yelled, spittle flying. “Unless they pay us reparation, this allegiance lies broken! I demand the bitch’s head!”

“By Lenay tradition, and indeed our own,” Balthaar replied, “the lands upon which an army is encamped are to be considered beholden to their own laws. Your brother very foolishly stepped onto the Lenay camp uninvited, and overstepped the bounds of Lenay honour. I have spoken with Prince Koenyg, and all Lenays seem agreed on the matter, even those who have no love of Sashandra Lenayin. So long as the Army of Lenayin abides by its own laws upon their own encampment, no one has any matter to complain about.”

“Your Highness,” Elias tried again, struggling for control, “we are cousins. Our families have strong ties over many long years. In the name of our families, I ask you only for justice. Grant me justice, for my brother. Or I shall be forced to take it.”

“And sever an allegiance that promises to regain us the Saalshen Bacosh?” Balthaar replied, unperturbed. “The archbishops would view it ill. Perhaps you would like to argue the point with them?”

Elias hung his head, teeth grinding in frustration.

“Furthermore.” Balthaar walked slowly forward. “I would advise against any further action against the Lenays. I have spent part of the morning sparring against Prince Koenyg, and I will reluctantly confess that he bested me quite handily…something that you, Sir Elias, have found elusive. They have an even greater love of honourable combat than we, and would challenge any who so grievously insult them until there are none such left alive. Best that you stay off their lands for now. We have other uses for our Lenay allies.”

Elias opened his mouth, then paused, frowning.

Balthaar stopped before him, and put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Prince Koenyg tells me that the Army of Lenayin shall take the southern, Enoran flank. Alone, save for some Torovan reinforcement. Against the Enoran Steel, their numbers should be matched quite evenly.”

Elias stared. “A feint?”

“To keep the Enoran Steel from sweeping onto our flank, yes,” Balthaar confirmed. “The Army of Lenayin has pride at stake, and we learn today all about Lenay pride. They shall not retreat easily, no matter their losses.”

Elias’s eyes registered a dawning realisation. A delight. “One needs four-to-one odds at least against the Steel. They’ll be annihilated!”

Balthaar shrugged. “Prince Koenyg thinks not. We shall see, indeed, to what all the tales of Lenayin’s martial prowess amount.” He shook Elias’s shoulder, affectionately. “Cousin, I grieve for Eskwith. But be at peace, there shall be blood enough for all purposes before this is through. Come, we shall drink to Eskwith’s memory, and of glories in battles to come.”

He escorted Sir Elias and his men from the tent, without a backward glance. There would be no further reprimand, Sofy realised. No punishment
to Yasmyn’s attackers. When all had left the tent, she escorted Yasmyn to a chair and eased her into it, so she could better examine her injuries.

“Not blood enough for
all
purposes, dear husband,” she said blackly.

The service for Sir Eskwith, Sir Temploi and Sir Ancheve was concluded upon sundown. The evening meal was more lively than Prince Balthaar had expected, however, enlivened by much talk of the terrible fate awaiting the Army of Lenayin at the hands of the Enoran Steel. The Lenays, it was generally agreed, were mindless fools who did not take seriously the many lessons of the Saalshen Bacosh’s military prowess. Such talk was far freer of late, since it had been agreed by all that under the circumstances, the usual joint feast of Lenay and Bacosh lords was probably not a good idea.

As Balthaar trudged back to the royal tent, he wondered what would truly happen if they won. His father was confident that they would, but his father, like his wife, placed far too much faith in the good opinion of the gods. Balthaar knew that all of history’s attempted liberators of the Saalshen Bacosh had believed the gods on their side too, yet defeat had claimed them all the same. Perhaps it was not enough to claim that the gods were on one’s side. Perhaps the gods were waiting for an army, and a future king, to prove himself worthy of their blessing. Balthaar wondered if those who had died at the hands of the Steel were now happily ensconced in the heavens, or had been cast down to Loth, having been found unworthy, whatever their valiant efforts. Were the gods that vindictive? He fervently hoped not.

The matter with Sofy troubled him too. He did not like how Sir Elias had treated her, yet Elias was old family, while Sofy was very new. He thought that he certainly must love her, because she was so very pretty and full of warmth, and so fascinating in her foreign ways and exotic accent. Yet truly, his father was right—an event like this could only serve to show her her place, among the Larosans. He had to make her see that she must abandon her old world entirely, if she were to be truly happy in the new. And he did wish her to be happy, very much so. He would make love to her tonight, he decided, and apologise to her not in words, but in the warmth of his kisses and the lust of his loins. He would make clear to her all that she had to gain, and for so little a sacrifice, indeed, in what she would leave behind.

A man came running, a rattle of armour between the tents, interrupting Balthaar’s thoughts. Balthaar stopped, not recognising the young man but noting that he seemed pale and alarmed. Something had happened.

“Your Highness. Best that you come and see.”

Not far away, a farmhouse had been consumed by the sea of tents, and appropriated for noble use. Torches and lanterns now clustered about one wall
near some bushes, where a pair of newly headless bodies lay. Both were knights, in chain and family colours.

“Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh,” said a man-at-arms, grimly. “Sir Elias found them. No one heard or saw a thing.”

Balthaar stared at the bodies. The wounds were clean and swiftly made, the mark of an expert swordsman. “Elias, you say?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And where is Sir Elias now?”

“Under guard, by your leave, Your Highness. These two are his friends, I figured whoever did it might be after Sir Elias next.”

“Soldier, your name?”

“Sarno, Your Highness. Alaine Sarno.”

“You’re Tournean?”

“I am, Highness.”

“I shall pass on a commendation to your lord, Alaine Sarno.”

“I thank you, Your Highness.” The man bowed low.

Balthaar strode back to his tent, as the crowd about the bodies continued to gather. Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh…they had been with Sir Elias in Sofy’s tent this afternoon. They had taken liberties with that pagan Isfayen girl…could that be it? Surely even the mad, bloodcrazed Lenays would not go to such lengths to avenge the honour of a fool like her? Besides, honourable combat was the preferred Lenay method. But yet another duel, in the midst of this deteriorating relationship between Lenays and Bacosh men, would be surely refused by the Lenay king. Certainly his father the regent would refuse it, as was his right, in his camp. Perhaps the murderers knew that. Or perhaps, when a Lenay was angry enough, proper form ceased to matter.

He pushed through the tent flaps. There was not a maid in sight, only a small table on which dinner could perhaps have been served. Sofy sat in a comfortable chair, a book on her lap, lit by a lantern on another table between two glowing coal braziers. She looked up at him, serenely.

“Dear husband, is something the matter?”

“Where is your Isfayen maid tonight, dearest?”

“She’s not my maid. She is back with her Isfayen family in the Army of Lenayin, I believe. Why do you wonder?”

“Two of Sir Elias’s friends are dead,” said Balthaar. “You met them earlier this afternoon. Their heads are missing.”

“Oh,” said Sofy. She resumed reading her book. “The Isfayen have not played lagand with real heads for years. I hear there will be a game tomorrow, though. Would you like to go and see?”

E
RROLLYN ENTERED THE
RESH’ULAN
,
and surveyed the scene. There were serrin present, gathered about the lower stage, which stood alone before rows of amphitheatre seating and surrounded by a small moat. The serrin were asking questions of a man who sat at the centre of the stage, his wrists manacled together.

It was Reynold Hein.

Errollyn walked gingerly down the steps. He no longer hurt like he once did, but efforts to rebuild his strength met resistance from bruised flesh and strained muscle. Lesthen stood by the moat, speaking at length, his long white hair spilling on blue, formal robes. He saw Errollyn and pointed serrin to face him, without breaking sentence. Two serrin rose to confront him, expressions apologetic but firm. Errollyn abandoned his first plan, to draw his blade and strike off Reynold’s head. And he was in no physical condition yet to charge past his people, and execute their prisoner.

Aisha emerged from the group, took his arm, and guided him to a bench. Errollyn counted nearly thirty serrin present, many of the Mahl’rhen’s most prominent remaining names among them.

“It’s a formal
etoth’teyen,
” he muttered to Aisha as Lesthen droned on, and the two serrin who had opposed him returned to their seats, but kept a careful eye upon him. “Why does he warrant the formalities?”

“It’s the way, Errollyn,” Aisha told him. Her words lacked conviction. Errollyn was not entirely certain why she was still in Tracato. Rhillian had gone, and taken the Steel with her. Aisha had remained, ostensibly because she was Rhillian’s trusted lieutenant and would carry out her preferences, and make certain that the new peace with the feudalists would hold. Also, Errollyn knew, she’d been keeping an eye on him. But others could have performed either task as well.

“It’s not the way,” Errollyn retorted. “We
have
no way for this, we only use our formalities and debates because that’s all we have.”

“Well the human courts can’t take him,” Aisha said. “We’re all there is for law and order in Tracato right now.”

“Maybe we always were,” said Errollyn.

He stared at Reynold, hoping that certain peasant superstitions were true, and the weight of a hateful stare alone could bring misfortune upon a person. Reynold did not look particularly troubled. He sat serenely, with excellent posture, and listened to Lesthen’s droning—in Saalsi, too, for Reynold spoke excellent Saalsi, like any Nasi-Keth scholar. This was not a man who expected to die, not even given what he’d done. Reynold was a persuasive talker, and could think just like a serrin—round and round in circles. It had taken some time for Errollyn to ride here, after he’d heard, from out on the practice fields. This session had surely been progressing for more than an hour so far.

“Where was he caught?” Errollyn asked. Lesthen was talking about the philosophy of Mereshin, who had been dead fifteen hundred years. Gods help them all.

“Elisse,” said Aisha. “Some Civid Sein went that way, amongst the villages we liberated in the south. They were talking revolution.”

“What did the peasants say?”

“They expressed a preference for bread,” Aisha said drily. “Several heard of a reward and alerted the
talmaad
.”

“They’ll eat well on that reward,” said Errollyn. “Reynold finally achieves something for the poor.” Aisha gave him a faint smile, and put a hand on his arm.