He clapped me on the shoulder and added cheerily, “I expect you’ll have some explaining to do once you get back to Aramor.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WEDDING CAKE
The execution of a Margrave creates a surprising amount of paperwork. Military forces, for example, can’t simply be dumped together like vegetables in a stew: each side’s officers must now begin vying for command of the newly combined force, while the common soldiers, always convinced that the other guy’s troops get better pay (and even if they don’t, they should), will immediately start demanding higher salaries. Not that more money even begins to deal with the possibility that you’re suddenly part of the same squad that just killed your comrade or even one of your brothers.
Then there’s the matter of taking over the palace, eliminating anyone related to (or having sex with) the deceased Margrave, and most important of all, securing the treasury before its contents mysteriously disappear. A great many people need to be bribed, especially the clerics—even in a country where the Gods have been murdered, you still don’t want to be on the wrong side of the Church.
And, of course, when wedding celebrations come to such an unexpected and bloody end, you have to decide what to do with the cake.
“It’s not bad, actually,” Brasti said, licking his fingers as he sat back down on the edge of the dock.
The narrow beach was littered with wounded men awaiting treatment, lying groaning amid the decorative silk streamers meant to guide the happy couple along the gilded path that led up a gentle slope to the Margrave’s summer palace.
Kest looked up from cleaning the edge of his shield. “You should probably leave the cake alone,” he warned Brasti.
“Why, is it bad luck?”
Kest pointed at the remains of the cake, sitting unceremoniously next to a pile of dirty dishes. “I suspect that’s not raspberry sauce.”
Brasti looked at the red splatters on the icing, momentarily horrified, then he shrugged and used the head of one of his arrows to slice himself a second piece, this time taking care to cut around the red parts. “I’m going to miss this, you know.”
“Desecrating dead men’s wedding cakes?” I asked, following Kest’s example and carefully running a cloth along the blade of my rapier. The problem with killing people is that if you forget to polish the blood off your weapon, you’re liable to find it stuck in its sheath the next time you need to take someone down.
Brasti kicked an unconscious guardsman. “This. Traveling around the country together, beating the hells out of corrupt nobles and their thuggish lackeys.” He let out a sigh. “Mark my words, Falcio, life will become terribly dull once Aline becomes Queen.”
“You foresee a shortage of corrupt nobles and thuggish lackeys in our future?” I asked. “Or is this because you’re going to abandon Kest and me so that you can run off and marry Dariana?”
He turned abruptly serious. “Come on, Falcio, it had to end sometime. You’ve done your duty: you’ve fulfilled the King’s last request; you’ve found his ‘Charoite’ and pretty soon she’s going to be taking the throne. Our time is over. Let someone else take a turn at judging whose sheep ate whose grass.”
There was a certain logic to his words, of course, but it still struck me as highly optimistic—or pessimistic, perhaps, depending on your point of view. I didn’t really have the energy to contradict him, though, so I looked at Kest, who shook his head at me. “You forget, Falcio, when the King was in power we weren’t constantly racing about the country trying to save it. Most of the time we just rode our circuits, heard our cases, and delivered our verdicts.”
Brasti blew a strand of damp hair out of his face. “Gods, those circuits: twice a year, the same bloody route, the same wretched towns and villages, and the same pressing need to work out how to saw a cow in half in order to settle some bloody-minded farmers’ dispute. I swear they glued the damned things back together after we left just so they’d still have something to fight over.”
Some part of me knew that Brasti was right—although hopefully, not about the cow. I felt an odd pang in my chest just then; I’d only recently discovered that I had a habit of remembering the past somewhat more . . . well, romantically than perhaps it deserved. Whenever I thought back to the early days in the Greatcoats, I remembered the deviously complex cases, the perilous duels and daring escapes. There’d certainly been a fair few, but they’d taken place over years, not weeks. Believe it or not, most trials don’t end in swordfights. Once Aline became Queen, the fate of the country would no longer be in our hands at every turn—we’d go back to being judicial functionaries. Bureaucrats. I’m sure I used to enjoy that life . . . so why did the mere thought of it feel so foreign now?
I felt Kest’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s not just you, Falcio. The mind can become accustomed to almost anything, even the chaos of an interregnum and the daily struggle to avoid death.”
Brasti jumped to his feet. “I have an idea.”
No good has ever come from those four words coming out of that particular mouth.
He waited patiently to be asked—almost a full second—then pointed at the deceased Margrave’s wedding barge. “We should become pirates!” He caught my expression and hastily amended his suggestion. “I mean, good pirates, of course. Noble pirates.”
“‘Noble pirates’?” Kest asked.
“How would that work, exactly?” I asked, having already forgotten my rule about Brasti and ideas.
He looked thoughtful, as if he’d given the matter extensive consideration. “Well, we only attack the ships of excessively rich and venal men, and then we . . .” He made a series of gestures with his hands that made no sense to anyone, then explained, “We sort of . . . well, redistribute what we took, give it to those in the greatest need. Minus a reasonable commission, of course.”
Kest tilted his head. “You’re suggesting we switch from enforcing the laws to actively breaking them by stealing from those with wealth to give it to those without?”
“Minus a reasonable commission,” he repeated. He saw me staring at him and added quickly, “Not a big commission, of course! I’m sure Kest could come up with a suitable formula.”
“‘The Greatcoats,’” I announced, “‘stealing ships from the wealthy to give unto the poor . . . minus a suitable commission.’” I slid my squeaky-clean rapiers back into their sheaths. “Not exactly the most memorable catchphrase.”
Brasti sulked. “Not the way you say it.” He looked past me and grinned. “On the other hand, perhaps you can ask Rhyleis to come up with something more poetic.”
I turned to see the beautiful—and dangerous—Bardatti guitarist from the wedding walking toward us.
Brasti was suddenly close behind me. “You really should bed that woman, Falcio. I warn you, I won’t wait much longer before I make her a better offer.”
“You already did,” Kest said. “Five times, by my count.”
“How dare you, sir!” Brasti said, doing his best impression of a gentleman whose good name has just been slandered. He has to do it as an impression, of course, because he’s never actually had a good name. “I will have evidence from you, Kest Murrowson, or have no choice but to challenge you to—”