Page 83 of Play of Shadows
‘On the contrary,’ the Vixen replied, her attention still fixed on me, ‘were my mother here, she would happily remind you of its rich and bloody tradition.’
‘Brother. . .’ Beretto warned, putting a hand on my shoulder.
‘Get out of here,’ I whispered to him. ‘Take Rhyleis and get back to the Belleza, quickly as you can. Oh, and tell Shoville I might be late for tomorrow’s rehearsal.’
‘Where is the bloody Duke of Pertine?’ Beretto demanded. ‘Surely he wouldn’t allow this to continue?’
‘No doubt where such men always are at times like these,’ Rhyleis said, still holding her finger-blade at the ready. ‘Anywhere but where you need them.’
Beretto caught her glance and I thought I saw something pass between them. I had the terrible feeling that what I’d spotted was a remarkable– and entirely reckless– pact that neither would abandon me.
‘I stand assecundifor Damelas Chademantaigne,’ Beretto turned and shouted. ‘Should he fall before the matter is settled, I will pick up his blade and finish this foul affair once and for all!’
‘I, too, will remain,’ Rhyleis announced with no less extravagance. ‘As a Troubadour of the Bardatti, I invoke my right to witness any judicial matter of my choosing.’ Her scathing glance swept over the Vixen. ‘And to chronicle it in song and story for all time.’
‘Marked!’ Ferica shouted triumphantly before I could gainsay my friends’ idiotic demonstrations of loyalty. To Beretto she asked, ‘And does your brave service as Chademantaigne’s second extend to the duel to follow this one, as well?’
‘What?’ Beretto asked.
No matter what Ferica di Traizo’s new rank might demand of her, a vixen would not change its nature for a title.
‘The duke will never allow a newly named margravina to challenge a poor old man to a duel,’ I insisted.
Ignoring me, one of the guards produced a nub of chalk and began drawing a circle on the pristine marble.
Ferica walked its perimeter daintily. ‘I rather think I won’t have to challenge him at all, will I? Even as mediocre a Greatcoat as “The King’s Courtesy”– and what sort of a name is that, I ask you?– will surely feel the need to avenge the death of his beloved grandson.’ Her gaze caught mine and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. ‘And such a death it will be, my rabbit.’
What have I done? Of course my stupid plan isn’t going to work. She didn’t even need to set a trap for me– I walked into it myself!
Beretto was saying something to me, urging me to plead some excuse to delay in the hope that the duke might return and put a stop to this, but his voice was sounding ever more distant as my ignominious death grew closer. I tried to draw the rapier the guard had handed me, but the hilt slipped from my grasp and the blade slid back into the scabbard as if trying to flee the scene. Frantically, I rubbed my sweaty hands on my thighs before attempting to draw the weapon again.
I could help you, you know, Corbier offered with placid indifference.
How? You’re just a faint collection of stolen memories. Irritating memories, true, but still—
I felt the Red-Eyed Raven’s smile twitch on my own lips.Memories can be many things. Pictures in our mind. . .
The throne room disappeared, replaced by a cascade of images, from the tranquil scene of a mother and child strolling along the sand near placid water to the chaos of a thousand men and horses smashing into an enemy line upon a rocky field already littered with corpses.
Memories can be sounds. . .
Screams filled the air: soldiers dying, steel clashing against steel, hammering into bone, cutting into flesh—
Don’t, I pleaded.Don’t make me listen to th—
But Corbier wasn’t done.And then, of course, there are those memories within the body itself. . .
Suddenly my fingers ached to feel once again the familiar smoothness of a rapier in my hand, not squeezing with the trembling rigidity of a rank amateur, but the sure, confident grip of a true swordsman, one for whom the blade was an extension of his own arm.
My feet shifted of their own accord, sliding a few inches wider apart, letting my weight settle evenly on the balls of my feet. My thigh muscles quivered, longing for the sensation of a single perfect lunge, the kind that would send the tip of my blade flying like an arrow past my opponent’s guard.
The Vixen’s polite cough returned my attention to the throne room. She had slipped off her boots and stripped out the laces, using them to quickly and efficiently fasten the length of her gown around her legs, turning the skirts into a pair of bulbous trousers loose enough to enable a full lunge.
‘Any last words, my rabbit?’ she asked, swiping her rapier viciously through the air. With her other hand, she gestured lazily to Rhyleis. ‘After all, we have our very own Troubadour here to capture all this for posterity.’
Might I have the pleasure of a verbal riposte this time?Corbier asked.
Before I could answer, the words began tumbling from my mouth, spoken with a nobleman’s elegance and a soldier’s brutality combined. ‘Lady Ferica di Traizo, I declare to all present in this hallowed chamber, before the good Gods of War and Coin themselves, that you, worthless daughter of a worthless House, are a craven, feckless creature. Your existence is an abhorrence against the grace of the saints and the dignity ofthe gods. That you should ascend to the title of margravina is an affront to the very aspiration of nobility. Your heart is a ruined, empty vessel. You are without honour and without courtesy. For these, and for your many, many other sins’– my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the rapier, and drew the first four inches of steel from the scabbard as Corbier said with a smile– ‘I am for you.’
