Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Read online

  Also by Sebastien de Castell

  Traitor’s Blade

  Knight’s Shadow

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by

  Jo Fletcher Books

  an imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd.

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © 2016 Sebastien de Castell

  Map copyright © 2014 Morag Hood

  Author photo © Pink Monkey Studios

  The moral right of Sebastien de Castell to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  HB ISBN 978 1 78206 680 4

  TPB ISBN 978 1 78429 569 1

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 964 4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my wonderful sister-in-law, Terry Lanthier,

  The closest most of us will ever come to

  meeting an actual Saint . . .

  Contents

  On The Morning Of Your First Duel

  The Sanguinist

  The Lark’s Pirouette

  The Healers

  The Wounded

  The Uninvited Guest

  The Red and the White

  The Martyrium

  The Evidence

  The Six Doors

  The Inquisitors

  The Mob

  The King’s Shadow

  The First Deception

  The Last Breath

  The Saint of Mercy

  The Shattered Stones

  The Tavern

  The Dance

  The Sanctuary

  The Woman in the Coat

  The Smile

  The King’s Spear

  The Blood Moths

  The Throne Room

  The Two Greatcoats

  The Bedroom

  The Ally

  The Box

  The Walking Stick

  The Remnants

  The Tongue

  The Release

  The Madness

  The Curtain

  The Message

  The Bodies

  The Favour

  The Fox and the Chickens

  The Love of Gods

  The Visitor

  The General

  The Avertiere

  The War

  The Realm’s Protector

  The Delegation

  The Hymn

  The Whipping Boy

  The Demesne

  The Cathedral

  The Escape

  The Chapel

  The Heretic

  The God

  The Apostate

  The Broken Heart

  The Land of the Dead

  The Awakening

  The Castle

  The Church

  Courage

  The Boy and the Cat

  The Prayer Stone

  The Return

  The Oaths

  The Plan

  The Falling Tower

  The Iron

  The Challenge

  The Duel

  The Spirit

  The Shot

  The Arrow

  The Surrender

  The Aftermath

  On The Eve Of Your Last Duel

  Acknowledgements: The Author’s Lament

  Bonus Content

  CHAPTER ONE

  On The Morning Of Your First Duel

  On the morning of your first duel, an unusually attractive herald will arrive at your door bearing a sealed note and an encouraging smile. You should trust neither the note nor the smile. Duelling courts long ago figured out that first-time defendants are less prone to running away if it means embarrassing themselves in front of beautiful strangers. The practice might seem deceptive, even insulting, but just remember that you are the idiot who agreed to fight a duel.

  Don’t bother opening the envelope. While the letter might start out with extravagant praise for your courage and dignity, it quickly descends into a lengthy description of the punishment for failure to show up at court. In case you’re wondering, the penalty in Tristia for attempted flight from a lawful duel is roughly the same as that of attempted flight from the top of a tall tree with a rope tied around your neck. So just take the unopened envelope from the herald, crumple it in your hands and toss it into the fire. It helps if you do this while uttering a dismissive snort or even a boisterous ‘huzzah!’ for best effect. Then as the flames feast upon the details of your upcoming demise, place your hands on your hips and strike a confident pose.

  The herald might, at this point, suggest you put on some clothes.

  Choose trousers or breeches made of a light, loose fabric, with plenty of room to move. There’s nothing quite so embarrassing as having your lunge come up short at the precise moment that your enemy is counter-attacking and he drives his blade deep into your belly just as your seams split at the crotch.

  ‘But wait!’ you say. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong! How did I end up in such dire circumstances when I don’t even know how to hold a sword properly?’

  The herald will laugh brightly, as though firmly of the belief that you’re merely jesting, before ushering you out the door and escorting you to the courthouse to meet your secondier.

  The law in Tristia, observed in all nine Duchies, requires that every duellist be supported by a second – for otherwise, who would go back and forth between you and your opponent to deliver the necessary scathingly droll insults? If you have no one of your acquaintance willing – or able – to fulfil this sacred duty, and you are too poor to hire a suitable candidate, then you can count on the local Lord or Duke to provide a secondier for you. That’s right: you live in a country so feckless and corrupt that those same nobles who would gladly stand aside as you starve to death would never, ever consider allowing you to be skewered by the pointy end of a blade without a second standing proudly beside you.

  Make your way past the twin statues of the Gods of Death and War that guard the double doors leading into the courthouse and through to the large central room littered with exquisite architectural features, none of which you’ll notice, for by now your eyes will be fixed on the duelling court itself. The classical form is a simple white circle, roughly ten yards across, however, in these modern times you may instead find yourself in a pentagon or hexagon or whatever shape is deemed to be most blessed by the Gods in that particular Duchy. Once you’re done admiring the architecture, take a look at the person standing on the opposite side of the duelling court. This is the moment to remember to clench all the muscles in your lower body to prevent any . . . accidents.

  Your opponent – likely a highly skilled Knight, or perhaps a foreign mercenary – will smile or grimace, or possibly spit at your feet, and then immediately turn away and pretend to be engaged in a thoroughly witty conversation with
a member of the audience. Don’t worry too much about this part – they’re only doing it to unnerve you.

  The clerk of the court will now announce the terms of the duel. You might be tempted to take heart when you hear that this duel isn’t to the death, but that would be a mistake. Whichever Lord or Lady you offended has almost certainly instructed their champion to first humiliate you, then bloody you, and finally – and with a grand flourish that will bring the audience to their feet, roaring with applause – kill you.

  When this happens, you can rest assured that the presiding magistrate will undoubtedly make a great harrumphing noise over this gross violation of the rules, and will immediately fine said Lord or Lady, although that will be roughly equivalent to the cost of the wine in the goblet they’ll be drinking while watching you bleed out on the floor.

  Not really your best day, is it?

  Well, that’s for later. For now, take a good, long look at your opponent standing across from you in the duelling court, because this is the part where you learn how to win.

  Your enemy is almost certainly a great fencer – someone with speed, strength of arm, exceptional balance, lightning reflexes and nerves of steel. A great fencer spends years studying under the finest masters in the country. You, regrettably, aren’t likely to have had the benefit of any of those fine qualities and there’s a good chance that your only fencing master was your best friend when the pair of you were six years old, play-fighting with sticks and dreaming of growing up to be Greatcoats.

  But you don’t need to be a fencer right now; you need to be a duellist.

  A duellist doesn’t care about technique. A duellist won’t be walking into that circle hoping to impress the audience or curry favour with their nobles. A duellist cares about one thing only, that most ancient and venerable of axioms: Put the pointy end of the sword into the other guy first.

  So as the clerk strikes the bell signalling the beginning of the duel and your opponent begins his masterful display of skill to the appreciative oohs and ahs of the audience, forget about life and death or honour and cowardice; forget about everything except finding that one opportunity – that single moment – when you can push the top three inches of your blade into your opponent’s belly.

  In Tristia we have a saying: Deato mendea valus febletta. The Gods give every man a weakness.

  Remember this, and you might just survive the day. In fact, over the years that follow, you might even go on to win other duels. You might even become known as one of the deadliest swordfighters of your generation. Of course, if that does turn out to be the case, then it’s equally likely that one day – perhaps even today – that great swordfighter who’s about to lose the duel?

  It could be you.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Sanguinist

  ‘You realise you’re losing quite badly, Falcio?’ Brasti asked, leaning against a column just outside the seven-sided duelling court of the Ducal Palace of Baern.

  ‘Shut up, please,’ I replied.

  My opponent, whom I’d been informed was undefeated in court duels but whose name I’d forgotten, gave me a little smirk as he flicked the point of his smallsword underneath the guard of my rapier. I swung my own blade down in a semi-circle to keep him from stabbing my thigh, but at the last instant he evaded my parry by flipping his point back up. He extended his sword arm and pushed off his back leg in a quick lunge. Had there been any justice in the world, he shouldn’t have been able to reach me.

  ‘Saint Zaghev’s balls,’ I grunted, the tiny cut burning into my right shoulder: a reprimand for misjudging the distance.

  Why do I always let myself get tripped up by smallswords?

  Despite the name and the delicately thin blade, smallswords are deceptively long. My opponent’s was only a couple of inches shorter than my own rapier, and he’d made up the difference with an extravagantly long lunge of the sort immortalised in the illustrations of the more imaginative fencing manuals.

  From the far side of the duelling court Kunciet, Margrave of Gerlac, the rotund, foetid bastard who’d engineered this duel, shouted, ‘Bravasa!’ at his champion. Twenty or so of the Margrave’s retainers joined in the cheer, adding a few sprinkles of ‘Fantisima!’, ‘Dei blessé!’ and other mis-applied fencing terms.

  However much this annoyed me, it is accepted practice for a duellist’s supporters to cheer them on – in fact, I was entitled to similar outbursts from my own admirers.

  ‘This Undriel fellow really is remarkably skilled,’ Kest remarked.

  Undriel. That was the bastard’s name.

  Brasti came to my defence, after a fashion. ‘It’s not Falcio’s fault. He’s getting old. And slow. Also, I think he might be getting fat. Just look at him – barely four months since he beat Shuran and already he’s half the man he once was.’

  Always nice to have friends nearby in troubled times, I thought, batting at Undriel’s blade with a clumsy parry that was testament to my increasing exhaustion.

  ‘Don’t distract him,’ Ethalia said.

  I started to glance over to give her a reassuring smile, but instead felt the heel of my right boot slip on the slick floor and stumbled several steps back, trying to catch my balance.

  Idiot! Reassure her by not dying.

  Undriel and I circled each other for a few seconds, eyeing each other for signs of any growing weaknesses that could be exploited.

  Gods, but I’m tired. Why doesn’t he look tired?

  The sound of someone sipping tea drew everyone’s attention: Ossia, the rake-thin, elegantly aged Duchess of Baern was sitting upon her high-backed throne at the head of the courtroom. Aline, heir to the Crown of Tristia, and Valiana, Realm’s Protector, sat on either side, perched on considerably smaller chairs, like children made to attend their aunt. Aline periodically looked up at the Duchess in irritation, but Valiana’s barely contained fury was reserved entirely for me.

  I couldn’t really blame her.

  What had started as a largely ceremonial event meant to introduce Aline to the various minor nobles of the Duchy had taken an unexpected turn when the Margrave of Gerlac, one of six men hoping to replace the ageing and childless Duchess Ossia, took advantage of our presence to launch a legal dispute against the Crown. Through a torturous process of twisted judicial logic, he’d claimed he’d merged his properties with those of the churches on his lands and thus was now – despite still occupying those lands – exempt from paying taxes. He’d even brought in a few token clerics in impressively ornate robes to confirm his story.

  Duchess Ossia, ever the diplomat, had elected to defer judgement of the issue to Valiana, who, as Realm’s Protector, had patiently listened to every argument, reviewed every document and then promptly declared the case invalid. Kunciet, as such men do on those rare occasions when they don’t get their way, threw a hissy fit. He began by questioning the validity of the verdict, then Valiana’s standing as Realm’s Protector and then, right in front of us, started making not-very-subtle threats against Aline.

  That was when I took over.

  Less than six months ago I’d bled buckets to keep Shuran and his Black Tabards from taking over the damned country. I’d risked not just my own life but those of the people I loved best to save those same Dukes who’d been spending a considerable portion of their spare time trying to have me killed. I’d been beaten, tortured and brought to the very edge of death, and all of it so that the daughter of my King could one day take her rightful place on the throne.

  Did anyone seriously believe that I was going to let some noxious back-water nobleman like Kunciet make public threats against her?

  The hells for that.

  Undriel made a rather stunning and unexpected dive below my blade, rolling on the ground and coming up on my left side, then skipping away before I could cut him. In the process, he tagged me again, this time on my left shoulder.

  ‘Should’ve worn your coat, Falcio,’ Brasti said.

  ‘Shut up,’ I repeated.

 
; Armour is forbidden in judicial duels, but most legal interpretations limit the prohibition to chainmail or plate. Since our greatcoats are made of leather, albeit with bone plates sewn inside, they’ve never been considered armour, not in the technical sense. After all, that was part of the design consideration behind the coats in the first place.

  So why wasn’t I wearing mine? Because Kunciet, Margrave of Gerlac, had declared such protection ‘cowardly’, and because Kest had, through a combination of raised eyebrows and light coughs, apparently agreed with him. In other words, because I’m an idiot and my friends are trying to kill me.

  A line of red began to stain the left shoulder of my white linen shirt, an almost perfect match to the one on my right. Evidently Undriel was using me as a canvas and wanted to balance his composition.

  The son of a bitch is trying to bleed me to death.

  Undriel is what we call in the duelling business a sanguinist: a fencer whose primary strategy is to go for little cuts – wounds that sting and bleed and distract you, until you start to slow down without even realising it. Sanguinists take their time, pulling you apart bit by bit, until they can end the fight with a single, brilliant flourish – they usually go for an artery so that you end by bleeding out spectacularly all over the floor. It can create quite a stunning tableau for the audience.

  I hate sanguinists.

  The wounds themselves were more annoying than anything else. Later, assuming I didn’t die, Ethalia would use one of her almost magical ointments to treat the wound, followed by a sticky salve to seal it. One of the many reasons I should already have asked her to marry me was the gentle way she’d pass her finger over the wound to wipe away the extra salve. That experience was so oddly sensuous it almost made you think getting a few more cuts wouldn’t be so bad . . .

  I let out an inadvertent and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as the tip of Undriel’s blade scored another nick, this time on the left side of my jaw.