The Margrave caught sight of the cleric in gray robes standing a few yards away. “You, cleric, what number is most sacred to the Gods?”
The hooded monk tilted his head slightly. “That’s . . . an excellent question. One could argue that six is the number most beloved of the Gods, for that is how many we recognize in Tristia. On the other hand, since by all accounts they’re now dead, it’s hard to say whether—”
“Just give me a number, damn you! A bigger one.”
The cleric paused. “Twelve—if for no other reason tha—”
“Fine.” Evidalle turned to his guardsmen. “Release her.”
Chalmers immediately reached down to grab her weapon from the deck, but one of the guards kicked her in the ass and she fell to her hands and knees.
Evidalle turned to the audience, the smile returning to his face. “Well, my Lords and Ladies? The Trattari needs twelve jurors. Who among you will take up her cause? Who will—?”
A rustle of cloth nearby caught the attention of both the guards and the Margrave. The monk in gray was kneeling to pick up one of the buttons from the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Evidalle asked.
“Taking my payment,” the monk replied, carefully examining the plain round piece of leather-covered wood as he held it up to the sun. “I’ll serve on her jury.”
One of the clerics in green, a servant of the dead God Coin, stepped forward and grabbed the monk by the front of his robes. “What heresy is this?” he demanded. “Who are you, that you would dare risk the wrath of the Gods?”
The monk in gray shrugged. “Alas, I’ve never had much use for religion, your Holiness.” He pocketed the button and then placed his hand on the cleric’s wrist and gently but firmly removed it. “However, if any deity wishes to register a formal complaint, they may meet me in the dueling circle at their convenience. As it happens, I’ve already seen at least one God die that way.”
The cleric in green drew away in disgust. “You’re no monk, to speak such blasphemy.”
“I confess, you are correct, Venerati.” The monk raised both arms above his head and his sleeves slid down, revealing that he was missing his right hand. With his left he tore off the robes, uncovering the long leather coat beneath and the shield strapped to his back. As he walked past the shocked guards to stand with Chalmers, he said, “My name is Kest Murrowson, a magistrate of the Greatcoats.” He paused for effect, before adding unnecessarily, “And I am the Queen’s Shield.”
The guards began to close in on the two Greatcoats.
“Thanks for the support,” Chalmers said. “Though it would have been more helpful if you’d brought, you know, a sword or something.”
Kest removed the shield from his back and slipped it onto his arm. “I do all right with this.”
Lady Rochlan strode forward. “You see now, Margrave Evidalle? Already your arrogant scheme has put all of our lives in danger.” To Kest she added, “I have no part in this, Trattari. I am loyal to the Duchess Ossia.”
Evidalle’s face grew ugly at this first tentative hint of rebellion. “You stupid cow—you think this one man changes anything? You think the Greatcoats will save any of you from my wrath?” He reached to grab at her, only to scream with such anguish that the seabirds went fleeing from the topmast.
The Margrave stared down in horror at the arrow sprouting from his hand.
“I believe this Chalmers person did, in fact, warn you about what would happen if those greedy fingers of yours went places they didn’t belong,” said the cook’s assistant. In his left hand was a short bow made of pale yellow wood. His right reached down to pick up the remainder of a roast chicken.
“You know, they have plenty of poultry at Aramor,” Kest said.
One of the guardsmen strode over to the cook’s assistant. “Who the devil are you?”
“Just a minute,” the assistant replied. “Kest, chickens in the South just taste better. You know that. Besides, the new royal chef over-spices everything.” He turned his attention back to the guardsman and tossed him the carcass of the chicken before wiping his hand on his shirt and absently pulling another arrow out from behind the spit. “To answer your question, friend, my name is Brasti Goodbow, and I am the Queen’s Jest.”
“Treason!” Evidalle squeaked, his voice breaking. As a squat man carrying a healer’s silver case started making his way toward the Margrave, several clerics fell in close behind, all muttering prayers to their various Gods. Evidalle’s eyes went to the guardsmen. “Kill them, you fools,” he commanded. “There are only two real Greatcoats to deal with—”
“About that,” Kest said. He picked up another of the buttons and tossed it over the heads of the wedding party toward the back of the ship. The eyes of the assembled guests followed its trajectory until a hand reached up and snatched the button from the air.
Shocked gasps erupted from the crowd, who’d all risen from their seats to see who had dared to catch it.
I stuck the button in the pocket of my livery and returned to refilling Lady Rochlan’s wine before setting the flagon down on the table beside her, being careful to prevent its contents spilling on her fine white feather-trimmed dress. She’d been polite to me all afternoon, despite thinking me a servant, and besides, the wine looked like a decent claret and there was a reasonable chance I’d soon be thirsty. Also, I was still feeling a bit seasick. “Pardon me, my Lady,” I said, and reached past her leg to where one of my rapiers was strapped under the table.
She put a hand on my arm. “There are far too many of them, you silly fool. You’ll only die here if you try to fight.”
I patted her hand before removing it, oddly touched by her concern, though I wasn’t entirely sure that she’d figured out who I was; maybe she simply didn’t want to lose a reasonably competent servant.
I withdrew my blade and leaped onto the table, knocking over a full plate of duck—but not spilling the claret and, most importantly, not falling on my ass.
Evidalle grimaced in pain as the healer poured a dark, viscous fluid around the spot where the arrow still pierced his hand. “Who in all the hells are you?” he asked.
I smiled. “My name, your Lordship, is Falcio val Mond.” My throat felt a bit dry, a product of having to maintain a servant’s silence all day, so I reached down and took a swig from the wine—and I was right, it was an excellent vintage—before I added, “I am the First Cantor of the Greatcoats, also called the King’s Heart. You might not know it yet, Margrave Evidalle, but you are having a very bad day.”
CHAPTER THREE
RUNNING THE TABLES
There’s a trick to fighting on the deck of a ship. I don’t know what it is, but I fully intend to find out one day. I imagine it requires not being seasick while trying to evade the attacks of a rather large group of enemy guards and nobles—oh, and an enraged bride.
“Take them!” the lead guardsman shouted. A gold stripe around the collar of his black and yellow livery marked him as either their Captain or perhaps just the most stylish dresser among them. His voice wasn’t especially commanding, but it was insistent, and combined with his bushy red hair and buck front teeth, made me think of a particularly angry squirrel.