Shit. ‘And “worthy blood” here would mean—’
Kest nodded. ‘The Dukes.’
‘Well, isn’t this just wonderfully convenient for everybody then?’ Brasti said, a little too loudly for my comfort. ‘The fucking Dukes murder the King and then, according to this arcane bloody law written by some in-the-pocket cleric, the same people who killed the King suddenly have the magical power to see where the royal blood lies next. Thank the Saints I became a Greatcoat to fight for such far-seeing laws!’
‘It’s not that simple, though, is it?’ Feltock said, rubbing his chin. ‘I mean, if it were just as easy as that I reckon the Dukes would have picked one of themselves right quick, wouldn’t they?’
‘You’re right: it’s not as easy as that. You were one of the Duke of Pertine’s generals. Do you think he’d have sat back while another man no more noble than he took power? Hells, you work for Patriana now – how do you think the Duchess of Hervor would feel?’
Feltock took a swig from the wineskin. ‘The Duchess isn’t always the most sharing of individuals. I suppose you’re right. So then why allow my mistress to take power?’
‘Because she’s an idiot,’ Brasti said lightly.
Feltock’s hand dropped to the knife at his belt. ‘You’ll hold your tongue, boy. I don’t expect you to love the Lady, but you speak of her with respect.’
Brasti threw his hands up in a gesture of mocking submission. ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ he said obligingly. ‘Given her parentage, she’s practically a fucking Saint.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Kest said to me.
‘Why,’ Feltock threw back, ‘’cause I’m just a stupid old army man, too soft in the head for your grand Greatcoat thinking?’
‘Feltock,’ I said, ‘not to give offence to her Ladyship, but the reality is that she’s young, inexperienced, guileless and completely malleable. If the Duke of Rijou is truly her father then the other Dukes likely see her as easily controlled. Rijou himself cares nothing for the world outside of his domain, so he’s unlikely to seek to use her to expand his own influence, and his region is completely dependent on trade, so he’ll want to keep the other Dukes content. Valiana will be as happy as a child with a new puppy, with a lovely throne and pretty clothes, and all the while the Dukes will have free run in their lands.’
‘Well now, I’m glad you’re not intending to give offence.’
‘If you want to see offence, watch what the Dukes regularly do with the young daughters of the peasants on their land,’ Kest said. ‘Or what happens to families when every strong back is suddenly conscripted to build a Duke’s petty temple or statue, or to fight an unnecessary border-war so that the Duke can call himself a warrior.’
Feltock locked eyes with him. ‘I’m not stupid. I know what can happen when a bad seed takes the Ducal seat.’
‘If that’s what you think then you are stupid,’ Kest said quietly. ‘A Duke who treats his people with anything less than an iron fist soon finds his fellow Lords coming to call with Knights at their backs, the length and breadth of their honour defined by how quickly they split a peasant’s head open when their own Duke commands it.’
‘So then what now?’ Brasti interrupted. ‘We go to a ceremony and that’s the end of it?’
‘No, but it’s certainly the beginning,’ Kest replied. ‘She needs Patents of Lineage, which must be signed by all the Dukes or else there could be questions of legitimacy later on. Nobody, not even the Dukes, want a civil war.’
‘They’ll bring a mage in to test her with a Heart’s Trial too, I’d guess,’ I added.
‘Test what now?’ Feltock asked. I could see him tensing up. ‘They’ll not put irons nor spells against my Lady.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ I said. ‘It’s just a ritual by which the mage can apparently test the content of her heart. Is she telling the truth about being the daughter of Jillard and Patriana? Does she hold any ill will towards the Dukes? Does she have evil in her heart? Does she plan anything nefarious—?’
‘My Lady may be difficult at times, but there’s nothing evil nor conniving in her.’
Kest looked at him wearily. ‘Exactly – and that’s why the Dukes will accept her, and why she’ll make a perfect tool for the Dukes to use to ruin this country for ever.’
Then Kest looked back at me. I didn’t need any Heart’s Trial to know exactly what he was thinking.
The Ducal Palace was like everything else in Rijou, built on three levels of increasing decay. The foundation had been formed hundreds of years ago when the men and women of Rijou had fought like iron bears against aggressors from the north, south and east. They had carved and carried indomitable eidenstone from quarries miles away in order to build a foundation and walls that would never be shattered by enemy forces. The foundation itself continued outside the palace, forming a promenade on which all major civic ceremonies took place. The promenade was known as the Rock of Rijou – the summoning place where the city would gather if ever they had to fight again to protect their homes.
Above this noble foundation sat hundreds of years of corruption. Seven Ducal families had taken their turns tearing down and rebuilding the overblown palace ballrooms and chambers, filling the palace with secret passageways and hidden alcoves, dungeon cells and rooms specially designed for torturing enemies: it was a harsh scab marring the hard-tanned skin of an otherwise great people.
But like any whore, Rijou’s Ducal Palace disliked revealing the lines and scars of its history, and so the current Duke squandered city monies to gild the vast chambers and hallways with precious metals and swathe it in rich fabric. Like many forms of lunacy it was somewhat ingenious in its manifestation. The Ducal Ballroom was built in several tiers. The Gemstone Tier at the top held the Duke’s table, the Golden Tier seated favoured nobles, the Silver was for those nobles who pleased the Duke too little. The military, tradesmen and musicians were to be found on the Oaken Tier, along with the dance floor, and below that the Iron Tier housed the kitchens and other utilitarian rooms behind great doors.
The ballroom and lighting were elegantly designed so that, while everyone could see the levels above them, giving impetus to elevate themselves in the Duke’s good graces, none could see the levels below, and thus could only imagine what might await them there should they fail to please their Lord. The Duke and his special guests shone like gemstones, to be admired by those beneath, but they needed never see the lower orders beneath them – and the Duke no doubt considered this stunningly idiotic arrangement a show of confidence that none would dare attack him.
‘I could kill him in seventeen steps,’ Kest remarked as he broke off a crust of bread.
‘Reckon I could kill him in one with my bow,’ Brasti said as we watched men in elaborate gold livery serve the main course on the levels above.
Feltock whispered angrily, ‘Reckon you’ll get us killed in no steps at all if you don’t shut your traps, fools.’
I looked around at the other peons on the Iron Tier. For the most part, everyone consigned to this level was working: fetching food and drink, moving empty dishes into the cleaning rooms, bringing brushes and pans to sweep up broken dishes. The only people eating with us were other bodyguards or nobles’ attendants not deemed well-groomed enough to sit behind their masters. The fact that all the horribly uncomfortable tables and chairs on our tier were made entirely out of rough iron rods – despite the huge cost – told me everything I needed to know about the Duke.
‘It’s starting,’ Kest noted.
The Duke rose from his gilded seat. His dark red velvet robes didn’t conceal his strong physique. Golden band encircled his waist and arms and on his head he wore a simple crown, not much more than a flattened loop of gold, really, but embedded at the front was the largest diamond I’d ever seen.