“Will you both please shut up?” Chalmers asked, slicing open a guardsman’s hand with the broken end of her cutlass. “Some of us would rather not die today if we can avoid it.”
The guard howled in pain, but he cleverly grabbed at Chalmer’s face, and smeared the blood over her eyes to blind her as he cocked his other fist. Good move. Almost a shame Brasti had to drive his shoulder into the man’s side, pushing him over the railing and into the water.
“If living matters to you then I’d suggest you stop running around pretending to be a Greatcoat,” Brasti told her.
“I’m just as much a Greatcoat as you are,” she countered. “The King named me so himself, on his last day.”
That took me aback. Was this a lie, or yet one more decision King Paelis had made without telling me? I spared Chalmers a glance. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but I still couldn’t quite place her. Also, right now I had other concerns: the Knights and their Lords had formed their own little troop and were looming over the bodies of several dead or wounded guardsmen. By now most of them had figured out my ruse, but it was too late; only four of Evidalle’s guardsmen remained standing. Seeing the odds had turned against them, they dropped their weapons and sank to their knees next to their fallen comrades.
“Stand up, damn you!” the Margrave screamed, but no one moved, which was entirely sensible. Nobody ever wants to be the last person to die right before the battle ends.
Shattering the silence, Brasti slapped a hand on his thigh. “Now I remember you! Chalmers—the annoying little girl who used to hang around the King’s cook—what was her name? Zagdana?” He turned to Kest. “You know what? This is proof the Gods do still exist. I may have finally found someone who knows how to cook a damned chicken.”
“Her name was Zagdunsky and she was the Royal Quartermaster, you ass,” Chalmers said to Brasti.
The Knights, none of whom appeared to be hurt, looked warily at us from across the pile of dead and injured guardsmen. One or two shuffled, as if they might be inclined to come for us, but I shook my head. “I wouldn’t recommend it, gentlemen. Not your fight.”
“I remember you now as well,” Kest said to Chalmers. “Though I seem to recall you looked quite different then.”
“That’s right!” Brasti said, pointing an accusing finger. “You were a tubby little thing, weren’t you?” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “My, my, haven’t you grown up nicely . . .”
“Didn’t you just announce your intention to propose to Dariana?” Kest asked.
“Yes, well, I can’t help it: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“That’s not what that sentence means.”
“Is there any reason I can’t kill him?” Chalmers asked me.
“Wait until we’re sure the fight’s over.” I called out to the Knights, “The fight is finished, isn’t it, gentlemen?”
A few of them glanced over their shoulders at the nobles they served, none of whom looked eager to take the chance that their man would fall to our blades and leave them vulnerable.
“This is treason!” Evidalle bellowed without the slightest trace of irony as he pounded his non-bleeding fist against the railing. “I will have justice for this!”
“Well, well,” Brasti said to me. “For once your plan hasn’t gotten us into worse trouble than we started with.”
“Don’t speak so soon,” Kest said, and pointed past the barge’s railing to the open waters beyond. In all the chaos of the battle none of us had noticed the ship rounding the bend in the river: a galleon was coming up fast behind us, flying a banner bearing the image of an eagle with talons extended over a field of blue and white.
“Which one’s that?” I asked.
“I believe that the eagle is the symbol of the Margrave of Val Iramont,” Kest replied.
As the galleon gradually drew closer, a slender man with a slight stoop and thinning gray hair approached the side. He was in his late fifties, I estimated. He ignored us and looked to the other end of the barge, where Evidalle was kneeling with his bride. “Margrave Evidalle,” the man called out courteously, “my profound apologies for arriving late to your blessed day. We had some rather inclement conditions navigating the Red Bay and then . . . well, never mind now.” He glanced at the rest of us: three—four—Greatcoats, the frantic guests, and finally the dead guardsmen. “I appear to have missed the festivities . . .”
Evidalle rose to his feet and, minding his bandaged hand, adjusted his coat before making his way to the side of the barge and greeting the newcomers with as much grace as his disheveled condition would allow. “Margrave Rhetan, how wonderful to see you, regardless of the hour.” Then, in a rather impertinent stretching of the truth, he added, “As it happens, we delayed the ceremony until your arrival.”
Margrave Rhetan gave his own perfunctory bow and motioned for his men to extend a narrow boarding bridge from the deck of his galleon down to the wedding barge. Without showing a trace of concern over the blood, fallen guardsmen, and rather large numbers of drawn weapons, he stepped across and said, “I hope there’s food left. My men haven’t eaten.”
I looked past him to see the rows of soldiers, weapons at their sides, preparing to come across. I guessed there were around a hundred.
“What now?” Chalmers asked.
“I’m not sure. I didn’t plan on another Margrave showing up with his own private army.”
“You know all your plans are terrible, don’t you?” Brasti asked.
“That’s not true,” Kest countered. “A number of Falcio’s schemes have proven to be ingenious.”
“Thank you.”
“Mind you, this isn’t one of them.”
“Well,” Brasti said, retrieving his bow from the deck and nocking an arrow to the string, “maybe we’ll be lucky for once; maybe Margraves Evidalle and Rhetan don’t like each other very much.”
Evidalle caught my eye and it became clear to me that whatever numbing salves the healers had given him to ease the pain of his wounded hand had kicked in because he could barely contain his laughter.
As Margrave Rhetan stepped onto the deck of the wedding barge, Evidalle embraced him and said, “It really is wonderful to see you, Uncle.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MARGRAVE OF VAL IRAMONT
When someone holds your life in their hands, they become remarkably impressive to behold.
At first glance, Rhetan might easily have been mistaken for a peasant farmer or a village shoemaker. He had the lined, leathery skin that comes from age and too much sun; his posture was that of a man whose fight with time was being lost by degrees. His hair was thin and mostly white, only a few stubborn strands of black remaining, and cropped close to his head. Stripped of his galleon and his hundred-odd soldiers, Rhetan would have been an altogether unimposing figure.
Of course, he did have a galleon, and he did have an army.
A dozen of his men accompanied him down to the wedding barge while the rest remained behind, leaning up against the railings of their ship and making sure we all got a good look at their assortment of crossbows and more than a few pistols.