The Tattered Banner Read online

  Soren was entirely unprepared for what exactly a royal banquet entailed. Ten courses were to be served in total, all washed down with expensive wines that were imported from all around the Middle Sea. On Alys’s other side sat one of the younger residents at that part of the table. He was raven haired, but of the same light complexion that was prevalent among Ruripathians. He wore a black fitted coat, similar to the ones worn by the officers on board the ship that had brought them north.

  ‘Tyro Soren, this is Captain Varrisher,’ said Alys.

  Varrisher looked at him appraisingly and nodded, not offering a hand. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tyro,’ he said, his voice sharp and confident.

  ‘Likewise,’ replied Soren.

  ‘Captain Varrisher has the accolade of having captained the first and last ships to run the ice for the last two years in a row. It marks him out as our premier captain! Great things will follow for him no doubt,’ Alys said to Soren quietly.

  ‘Run the ice?’ Soren asked.

  ‘Mmm yes,’ she said, taking a sip of wine. ‘The sea is frozen by the Niepar as far south as the border during the winter. Every year when the wind turns and the thaw begins, it is a race to see which captain will brave the melting ice flows first. The same happens at the end of the Nistra season, as the sea starts to freeze again, merchants take chances by sending out their ships as late as possible to bring out the last cargo of the year. They are the two shipments that will fetch the highest price, but many ships are lost each year trying. It’s still worth the risk for them to try though.

  ‘Captain Varrisher is the most successful at it, ever, as far as I know. They use smaller faster ships for the run than the normal Oceanmen, with crews of only twenty or thirty, but these cargos often fetch as much in foreign markets as a full sized shipment. Also, it has become something of a sport for the captains. Some of them become as famous as our best swordsmen. Captain Varrisher is one such captain.’

  Soren nodded, not sure what he could say. Varrisher was clearly very good at what he did and from the disdainful way he carried himself it was clear that he knew it.

  ‘I spent a year at the Academy in Brixen, you know,’ said Varrisher, out of the blue half way through the dinner. Up until that point the conversations were split on either side of the Princess, she giving her attention to each of them as best she could. This time Varrisher spoke directly to Soren. ‘I was able to take a year there during my studies at the Naval College. What with all the pirates around these days I thought it a prudent move. The instructors said I had a talent for it and that it was a shame that I had been sent to the Naval College. Still, I love the sea, so I am happy with the way things turned out. I still like to spar though. Perhaps we could have a few bouts before you leave; there is an excellent fencing hall here in the Palace.’

  ‘Perhaps. Yes. I’d like that,’ said Soren, remembering what Amero had said about displays of strength. He had no doubt that he could not only thrash Varrisher, but also show him up for the pompous popinjay that he was. For some reason he was feeling a growing rivalry with the man, but was not really sure why. ‘When will you make your first run this year?’ asked Soren.

  ‘Ah!’ He laughed. ‘That is a secret between me and my crew. Not even my backers get that information, but you may rest assured I will be leaving as soon as the waters are navigable!’

  His bravado was greeted by encouraging shouts from several of the other men at the table, many of whom wore military uniforms of dark grey with scarlet and white sashes.

  Soren had taken an instant dislike to Varrisher, and he felt from the way the man spoke to him that the feelings were entirely mutual. At first he was not sure what the issue between them was, but then it occurred to him that every time Alys spent any length of time talking to Soren, Varrisher would interrupt with some interesting fact about a foreign culture, a foreign city or some other interesting and exotic fact. One thing that Soren had quickly realised about Alys was her hunger for information about foreign places and the world outside of the Palace in general.

  As the meal progressed however, Alys spent more and more time talking to Soren, asking him about the city, the weather, and every other aspect of life in the south. The conversation flowed easily. Alys was open, witty and insatiably curious. He wasn’t sure if it was to spite Varrisher or her engaging personality, but as time wore on he began to see an attractiveness in her that he had not initially.

  Alys excused herself when the meal had finished, as did all the other women. The atmosphere grew rowdier and more drunken, but Soren did not find himself talking with Varrisher again.

  By the time Soren’s head hit the pillow in the early hours of the morning, the room was spinning around him.

  Amero sat on a plush armchair on the balcony of his apartment looking out over the Brixensea, nursing a glass of tonic salts. Emeric came out and stood with him, taking in a deep lungful of the crisp air.

  ‘Never tasted air so fresh; it feels like a glass of icy water,’ said Emeric.

  ‘Yes, it is quite refreshing, particularly after a night like last night, and I paced myself at one glass for every two our hosts had!’ said Amero.

  ‘Never had much of a thirst when in unfriendly lands,’ replied Emeric.

  ‘Well, the potential problem we discussed seems to have arisen,’ said Amero, bringing matters back to business.

  ‘Who?’ said Emeric.

  ‘The Chancellor; the portly old fellow with the red face. Marin is his name. He won’t go for it at all. The others seem keen, but the Prince listens to Marin, over all the others. As long as he has the Prince’s ear, there will be no deal,’ said Amero.

  ‘So, as we discussed then?’ Emeric said solemnly.

  ‘Yes, Ruripathia is the key to the plan, so I am not leaving here without an agreement. All of the others are biddable enough. Sweetening the deal a little will keep them all on board, but it is clear that Marin won’t budge no matter what. It can’t come back to us though, that would be the worst possible scenario. We’ll need to find a way to do it that won’t bring any suspicion to our door. I’d like to get home with my head still attached to my body,’ said Amero.

  ‘Understood. There won’t be any problems,’ replied Emeric.

  ‘Have Soren kill the old bastard,’ Amero said after a moment’s consideration. ‘I want to make certain he has the stomach for this type of work before I spend any more money on him.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ asked Emeric.

  ‘Yes. He looked tasty enough in the ruins, and I don’t believe for a second that was the first time he’s killed someone. He’s probably been knocking off rival gutter rats since he was weaned off the tit. It’s the life he’s accepted for himself and I want him to be made aware of it sooner rather than later. He doesn’t need to know the real reason why,’ said Amero. He returned to sipping his mineral salts and Emeric left, knowing his master well enough to be aware of when a conversation was over.

  Soren’s head was throbbing that morning also, so he was glad that the negotiations were being held in closed session. He tried to sleep fitfully until just before lunchtime, when there was a knock on the door.

  He got out of bed, wrapped himself in a gown and went to the door. Emeric walked straight in.

  ‘There is something we need to talk about, lad,’ he said.

  This piqued Soren’s interest, momentarily making him forget that his head felt like it was about to split open at any moment.

  ‘Amero has a job for us. For you mainly,’ he said.

  Soren nodded. He had expected something like this sooner or later.

  ‘The negotiations have hit a stumbling block. One of the Prince’s more elderly advisors, Chancellor Marin, is a firebrand. He wants Baelin back as part of Ruripathia, and won’t agree to any deal that gives them anything less. The Prince places a lot of faith on what he says. As long as he is around, the Count feels that a peace treaty is impossible,’ said Emeric.

  ‘He wants me to kil
l him?’ Soren asked uncertainly.

  ‘Not kill, assassinate. This is a political assassination and a necessary one at that. No less necessary a killing than the man you skewered in the ruins,’ replied Emeric. ‘This man is agitating for a war. Thousands would die. This is what you took upon yourself when you agreed to go to the Academy. You didn’t think it would be all fancy uniforms and swooning ladies and banquets now did you? This is how men of our type earn our keep. This isn’t some penny paid back alley killing, although more than one swordsman has ended up in that line. That’s the bottom of the barrel for men like us, and I assure you that you are destined for greater things if you play your cards right. This is statesmanship. Our actions can help secure the future of Ostia. Us. Two nobodies from nowhere who’ve got somewhere. That is responsibility indeed, and as noble a purpose as you could look for. We won’t be doing it for a night or two yet, so prepare yourself for it.’

  Soren spent the rest of the day lazing around in his room thinking of the task ahead. He had killed before and it had not bothered him. That was in his own defence. Now he was being asked to kill on behalf of the city. It was the duty of a swordsman to kill, or indeed be killed for the defence of the city. Whether that was on the open battlefield or hidden by intrigue made little difference. Whatever the method or reason, it was better than living from moment to moment on the street. If that was what was required for him to be a swordsman, that was what he would do.

  There was another knock at the door that pulled him from his thoughts.

  ‘Like most of the other men, you seem to have kept to your bed chamber for an uncommonly long time today!’ said Alys.

  She had two of her ladies in waiting standing awkwardly behind her as she stood staring at Soren’s bedraggled appearance.

  ‘May we come in?’ she inquired.

  Soren stepped back and gestured for them to enter. She sat at one of the chairs by the small table at the window, while her ladies in waiting sat on a chaise longue near the door.

  ‘My father has said that he will take a break in the negotiations for a few days to think on what has been said. By a few days he means a week or so, and I thought it might be the ideal opportunity to show you some snow!’ she said.

  Soren was taken aback. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘The Summer Palace. It’s in the foothills of the mountains to the northeast, a little more than a day’s journey away. The belek hunting season will have just started by then. It will be fantastic fun,’ she said enthusiastically.

  ‘I’ll have to ask the Count of Moreno. I’m not sure what he will intend for me,’ Soren replied.

  ‘It’s all been arranged; he is staying here but has said you may come. We will leave the day after tomorrow and spend four days there. A belek hunt is a right of passage for young Ruripathian noblemen. You may have noticed most of the nobles wearing grey fur cloaks?’ she asked.

  Soren had. They were the shimmering blued-steel and silver coloured cloaks of incredibly rich looking fur that were worn by many, but not all of the noblemen at the court.

  ‘I have, they look very nice,’ he said. ‘Very warm!’

  ‘Those cloaks are worn by noblemen who killed a belek before they turned twenty one years old. They are the only ones that are allowed. If you are lucky you might have one by the time you return south!’ she said.

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, my Lady, but what is a belek?’

  ‘Do you not have them in Ostia?’ she asked, somewhat puzzled.

  ‘We might, but I have never seen, or heard of one before,’ Soren said.

  ‘Oh, well, they look a little like a cat I suppose, but are as big as a bear, sometimes bigger! I assume you have cats and bears in Ostia?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Soren in amusement.

  ‘Good, well, belek are incredibly intelligent and cunning, and very, very dangerous. Many young noblemen are killed or maimed hunting them every year,’ she said.

  It did not seem like a particularly attractive pursuit to Soren, but he would never claim to fully understand the ways of bored aristocrats.

  ‘Anyway, I have much to prepare, so remember, the day after tomorrow. We leave early, so be ready!’ she said.

  It was clear that she would not accept any refusal to go on his part, so he acquiesced to her command. In any event, it would not be the done thing to refuse such an invitation from royalty. With that she and her two ladies breezed out of his room.

  Amero was not altogether pleased at the prospect of the planned hunting trip, but he acknowledged that there was little that could be done about it. It would not look good for Soren to refuse the invitation when it was clear the young Princess considered his going a foregone conclusion, and had begun preparations.

  It forced them to push their plan for Chancellor Marin forward. Thankfully, however, it appeared that Emeric was not one to wait for necessity to dictate his actions. Ever since they had arrived, he had been sneaking out of their room for an hour or two each night and exploring the Palace. For obvious reasons it was too risky for him to draw up maps, but he had made detailed observations and could recollect them accurately.

  He knew the locations of all of the rooms belonging to the senior members of the Prince’s council, which rooms were unused, and most importantly, the numbers and routes of the nocturnal guard patrols through the Palace. Soren had to admit that he was impressed by the thoroughness of Emeric’s intelligence gathering and the unadorned practicality with which he approached the matter was far more enlightening than a year’s instruction on the subject at the Academy.

  Chancellor Marin was old and portly. He had been seen to have a vigorous appetite and a fondness for wine and ale at the formal dinners and as such was a prime candidate for a heart attack.

  Killing a man of Marin’s position was delicate. He exerted considerable influence over the Prince and was apparently alone among the Prince’s ministers in opposing Amero’s treaty. If the assassination were to go wrong, the consequences would be catastrophic. All three of them would be executed and in all likelihood the two countries would go to war. However he died, it must appear to have either been accidental beyond suspicion, or of natural causes. His dying at such an inopportune time would certainly give rise to questions, so there was no room for any error that could lead to further suspicions.

  Amero decided that staging a heart attack was really the only option available to them considering the time frame. Murder by a jealous whore or mistress was always a convenient way to get an aristocrat out of the way Amero had said, but sadly there simply wasn’t the time to set it up. Soren and Emeric would have to sneak into Chancellor Marin’s apartments and administer a suitable poison that would precipitate a heart attack. They would then have to return to their own apartments undetected. It seemed a simple enough concept, but Soren knew there were many things that could go wrong.

  A staged mugging on a night time street would have been far more to Soren’s taste. He disliked using poison and had limited experience of it. It was considered a less than honourable way to kill, and certainly not one to be utilised by a banneret, so his lessons at the Academy had only given it the most cursory of appreciations. He knew what the major poisons were, and what they did, but the Academy had instilled in him a sense that a blade was the only acceptable way to dispatch someone in a clandestine fashion. Nonetheless, needs dictated otherwise.

  The poison that was most suited to their purpose was simple and called the Queen of Poisons. It had many advantages as an assassin’s poison. It was undetectable, was absorbed through the skin, and caused heart attacks. It was perfect for their purpose, and with great forethought, Emeric had included it in the secret case of poisons hidden in his trunk.

  The greatest advantage it offered was that it did not have to be directly administered. They could apply it to his bed sheets or nightclothes at any time, and allow the poison to do its work while they were elsewhere, preferably in plain view of others. As if this was not enough, once exposed to the air, the po
ison began to break down. By morning, when the Chancellor’s body was discovered, the poison would have degraded to a non-lethal form, and the servants handling the sheets and body would be unaffected.

  This was the plan that was decided upon. Soren and Emeric would enter the Chancellor’s apartments and liberally coat his nightshirt with poison. Before morning, he should have absorbed enough of it to cause heart failure. If everything went to plan, it would appear that an old, overweight man had died in his sleep.

  Carrying out the assassination proved easy enough. For whatever reason, during the day there were very few patrols through the inside of the Palace; virtually all the guards were on the exterior. The Chancellor’s apartments were empty and likewise unguarded. Emeric and Soren sneaked into the apartment. Soren carefully applied the poison on the nightshirt that had been left folded on the Chancellor’s bed as Emeric had instructed, using a brush and thick leather gloves so as to ensure none of the lethal liquid came in contact with his skin.

  In only a few minutes, they were done. Soren felt a giddy excitement but forced it down. They would have to wait until the following morning to discover if they were successful, but the danger of being discovered had passed. The sense of purpose and power that Soren felt afterward was almost overwhelming. That he, a former street urchin, could dictate the future of two countries with his actions was intoxicating. He wished he had been able to do it with his sword though, rather than in the less than honourable fashion with poison.