The doors crashed open and a knot of grimy soldiers burst into the room, making the maids scream and cower. Behind them came Count Fournier himself, along with Gabriel Venuzzi and a gaggle of the southern nobles’ sons who had marched into the city scant days before with such pomp and heraldry. They were smoke-blackened or bloodstained now, with frightened eyes and drawn swords. Fournier, however, was as dapper as always. In fact he seemed to have taken special care with his toilet, and was dressed in midnight blue with black hose and a silver-hilted rapier. He held a handkerchief to his nose against the powder-smoke that eddied through the entire palace, but when he saw the Queen he pocketed it with a flourish and then bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty.”
“My dear Count. What could possibly bring you here at this time?”
A crash of gunfire drowned his reply and he frowned, irritated. “Your pardon, Majesty. I thought it the merest good manners to come and make my farewells.”
“Are you leaving us then, Count?”
Fournier smiled. “Sadly, yes. But my journey is not a long one.”
The roar of battle seemed to be rageing just down the corridor. Fournier’s companions took off towards it, yelling—except for Gabriel Venuzzi, who collapsed upon the floor and began sobbing loudly.
“Before I go,” Fournier went on, “there is something I would like to give you. A parting gift which I hope will be of some use to the—ah, the new Torunna which will no doubt come into existence after my departure.”
He reached into the breast of his doublet and pulled out a tattered scroll. It was bloodstained and ragged, with a broken seal upon it.
“You see, lady, despite what you may think, I never wanted harm to come to this kingdom. I simply could not see any way to save it except my own. Others may save it—that is quite possible—but in doing so they will also destroy it. If you do not see what I mean already, I am sure you will one day.”
Odelia took the scroll with a slight inclination of her head. “I will see you hanged, Count. And your head I will post above the city gate.”
Fournier smiled. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Majesty, but I am a nobleman of the old school who will take his leave of the world in the manner he sees fit. Excuse me.”
He walked over to a table in the corner which had decanters of wine and brandy set upon it, ignoring the crash and roar of the fighting which was rageing a few doors down. Pouring himself a goblet of wine, he sprinkled a white powder into the glass from a screw of paper he had palmed. Then he tossed off the liquid with one swift gulp.
“Gaderian. As good a vintage to finish with as any, I suppose.” He bowed perfectly. When he had straightened, Odelia could see the sudden sweat on his forehead. He took one step towards her, and then folded over and toppled to the floor.
Odelia went to him and despite herself she knelt and cradled his head in her hands.
“You are a traitor, Fournier,” she said gently. “But you never lacked courage.”
Fournier smiled up at her.
“He is a man of blood and iron, lady. He will never make you happy.” Then his eyes rolled back, and he died.
Odelia shut the dead eyelids, frowning. The firing down the passageway reached a crescendo, and there was the clash of steel on steel, men shrieking, orders half lost in the chaos. Then a voice she knew thundered out: “Cease fire! Cease fire there! You—drop your weapons. Formio, round them up. Andruw, come with me.”
An eerie quiet fell, and then booted feet were marching up the corridor, crashing on marble. Through the door came Corfe and Andruw, with a bodyguard of Fimbrians and wild-eyed Cathedrallers. Corfe’s face was badly bruised and black with powder, and one eye was swollen. The Queen rose, letting Fournier’s head thump to the floor.
“Good day, General,” she said, aching with the need to run to him, embrace him.
“I trust I see you well, lady?” Corfe replied, his eyes scanning the room. Coming to rest on Fournier they narrowed. “The Count made good his escape, I see.”
“Yes, just this moment.”
“Lucky for him. I’d have impaled the traitor, had I taken him alive. Lads, cheque the next suite. That yokel down there says there’s no more but we can’t be too sure.” Andruw and the other soldiers tramped off purposefully. Corfe noticed the bedraggled heap of the weeping Venuzzi and kicked him out of his way.
“The city is secure, Majesty,” he said. “A force has been sent out to bring in the head of Colonel Willem. He is holed up to the east with some of the regulars.”
“What of the other conspirators?” the Queen asked.
“We shot them as we found them. Which reminds me.” Corfe drew John Mogen’s sword. There was a flash as swift as lightning, a sickening crunch, and Gabriel Venuzzi’s head spun end over end, attached to the body only by a ribbon of spouting arterial blood. The ladies-in-waiting shrieked; one fainted. Odelia curled her lip.
“Was that necessary?”
Corfe looked at her with no whit of softness in his eyes. “He had eighty of my men shot. He’s lucky to have died quickly.” He wiped his sword on Venuzzi’s body.
Odelia turned her back on him and walked away from the puddle of gore on the floor. “Clean up that mess,” she snapped at one of the maids.
The view out the window again. Fully a quarter of the city was burning, most of it down by the river. But the gunfire had stopped. Macrobius was still preaching in City Square, as he had been doing since dawn. What was he talking about? she wondered absently.
Corfe joined her. He looked like a prizefighter who had lost his bout.
“Well, you have delivered the city, General,” Odelia said, angry with him for all manner of reasons she could not name. “I congratulate you. Now all you have to do is save us from the Merduks.” Was it possible that Fournier’s last words had registered with something in her? That disgusting murder in cold blood—right in front of her eyes! What kind of man was he anyway?
“Marsch is dead,” Corfe said quietly.
“What?”
“He was killed while leading the breakout attempt.”
She turned to him then and saw the tears coursing down his cheeks, though his face was set as hard as marble.
“Oh Corfe, I’m so sorry.” She took him into her arms and for a moment he yielded, buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. But then he pulled away and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “I must go. There’s a lot to do, and not much time.”
She turned to watch him. He left the room blindly, tramping through Venuzzi’s gore and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.
T ORUNN’S brief but bloody agony ended at last as the regular army stamped out the last embers of the abortive coup. The fires were brought under control, thousands of the capital’s citizens mobilised to form bucket chains. Safely perched on a cherry tree in the heights of the palace gardens, the homunculus watched the spectacle with unblinking eyes. As darkness fell, it took off and flapped northwards.
That night, on the topmost battlements of Ormann Dyke’s remaining tower, Aurungzeb, Sultan of Ostrabar, hammered his fist down on the unyielding stone of the ancient battlement.
“Who is sovereign here? Who commands? Shahr Johor, you may be my khedive, but you are not irreplaceable. I have indulged your whims once before, and forgiven you for the failure which resulted. You will now indulge me!”
“But Highness,” Shahr Johor protested, “to change a battle-plan when the army is only days away from contact with the enemy is—is foolhardy.”
“What did you say?”
Hopelessly, Shahr Johor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your pardon, my Sultan. I am a little tyred.”