Page 78 of Play of Shadows
A Court of Flowers rises up,
Petals unfold,
Their stems are steel,
All covered in gold.’
She stopped singing again. ‘This is the only mention in any Tristian song I’ve ever heard to a “Court of Flowers”. Steel and gold are usually references to the armies or wealth of foreign rulers who might seek to undermine the country.’
‘The Court of Flowers!’ I repeated excitedly. Now that I was more or less free of Corbier’s influence, the coincidence of that turn of phrase matching the one used by Pierzi’s lieutenant in the past and appearing in the Sigurdis Macha book whose second volume had been stolen from the Grand Library took on new significance. I recounted all this to Beretto and Rhyleis. ‘What if it’s more than just a poetic metaphor?’ I pressed them.What if this “Court of Flowers” was used as an implicit threat that the ducal family could be replaced if the duke himself doesn’t fall in line?’
‘Of course!’ Beretto exclaimed, jabbing his forefinger in the air as if this was proof of some long-proclaimed political theory of his own devising. ‘That would make this so-called “congretto” less of a call to arms for the common man and more of a—’
‘—ransom demand,’ I finished for him.
The final lines of the song came tumbling from my mouth.
‘So go thou gently, oh prince.
Cease your roaring, oh Lion,
Else the morrow may find you,
Crowned with orchids of iron.’
‘Indeed,’ Beretto said. As quickly as it had come, his enthusiasm faded, replaced with melancholy as he sombrely repeated the last line. ‘Crowned with orchids of. . . with orchids of iron.’ His voice cracked at the end. ‘Poor Roz. Poor, poor Roz. Tortured and killed for no reason but to terrify a mere company of players.’
‘The crowning wasn’t to scareus,’ I said, annoyed with myself for having missed what should have been obvious. ‘The Iron Orchidsdon’tcare about a bunch of actors–wecan be replaced. Roslyn’s death was a message for Duke Monsegino.’
‘An interesting way to deliver it,’ Rhyleis said, playfully punching Beretto in the shoulder as if she could tease him from his grief. ‘What do you suppose this message is meant to convey?’
I couldn’t answer. I’d stretched what little information I had as far as it would go, and the anger that rose up in me was my own this time. I wished for once that I carried a rapier like the bravos of Jereste so that I could draw it from its scabbard and slashthe air in futile rage, or brandish it at the moon, shouting idle threats to the night sky. But I’d not picked up a real blade since I’d laid aside my sword when I’d fled the duel with the Vixen.
Besides, everyone knows a sword slows you down when you’re running.
Only, I was so very tired of running, tired of being afraid, of being bullied by dukes and thugs alike. Perhaps it was time I stopped running. Perhaps the world ought to know that the blood of two Greatcoats ran through the veins of Damelas Chademantaigne and thatdidmean something.
Please, all you restless saints, make it meansomething.
I turned to Rhyleis. ‘The congretto– can you compose one yourself? Only with different words?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’m a Bardatti Troubadour, moron. What do you think?’
I laced up my boots. ‘We’ll write it on the way,’ I said and slid my legs over the ledge before turning to begin the climb back down.
‘On the way where?’ Beretto asked, descending more nimbly than his bulk would have suggested.
‘The Ducal Palace. We’re going to persuade Monsegino to reveal everything he’s been hiding from us about the Court of Flowers.’
‘It’s past midnight, Damelas. How exactly are you going to convince the palace guards– not to mention the duke himself– to grant you an audience in the middle of the night?’
I waited to answer until Rhyleis had dropped the last few feet to the ground. I pasted a confident grin on my face and, taking some small pleasure in playing, just for once, the cavalier hero, announced, ‘Why, the same way actors have been seducing their way into the bedrooms and boudoirs of wealthy patrons for centuries. We’re going to write his Grace a love poem.’
Chapter 38
The Gates
Two pairs of iron gates separated the Ducal Palace of Jereste from the city. The first were set in a colossal arch of blue-enamelled brick, the top of which served as a guard house for the sentries, who could gaze down through strategically placed arrow slits at those who came begging entry into the massive courtyard where Jereste’s civic festivals were held. Courteous even at such a late hour, the sentries were perfectly willing– after a brief recitation of the legal penalties for seeking entry under false pretences– to open the gate to those asserting vital business with the duke.
