The Justice of Kings, page 14
The sun made a brief appearance that morning, but it was soon concealed by cloud, and after an hour of travel we found ourselves riding under a low ceiling of slate grey. The horror of the evening before already seemed a distant memory, and in fact there was some good to come out of it; for one thing, it was not a terrible surprise to find Rill a circle of charred beams and broken foundations.
We surveyed the scene with a sense of detachment. Given that it had been burned a couple of weeks before, the snow had buried much of the remains – including the charred bones of the unfortunate Draedists who had inhabited it. Vonvalt spent an hour kicking through the snow until he had found the place where Claver and his posse had set the stakes where the villagers had been immolated, and grimly picked through the skeletons. I saw among them the ribcage of what had obviously been a young child, and found myself weeping quietly on the back of my horse.
“They were burned here,” he said, indicating the ground where he stood. He sounded tired. With gloved hands he poked through a pile of bones. “There are some sword cuts, too. See these notches?”
I nodded, looking to where he was pointing. I still had not dismounted. My horse was idly cropping the frosty grass where Vonvalt had kicked the snow aside.
“Soldiers carry swords,” Vonvalt said, standing up. He looked to the north-east, squinting as if he might see Seaguard from where we stood. “These people did not stand a chance.”
Vonvalt moved among the ruins wearily. Sir Otmar’s manor, slightly more robust than the other houses, had fared a little better, though the roof had been completely consumed by flame. I watched Vonvalt go in and then come back out a few minutes later. He looked up at me.
“Don’t go in there,” he said.
All I could do was nod.
Vonvalt was angrier than I had seen him in a long time. The ruins of Rill represented more than just the violent and needless death of a peaceful village. They represented the beginnings of the decline in the primacy of the common law. Once it would have been unthinkable, even for a zealot like Claver, to oppose the judgment of a Justice. Now we were walking among the charred evidence of his defiance. Despite everything, the letter from Justice August, the attempt on his life, the letter from Sir Otmar – the séance with Sir Otmar – I still think that Vonvalt did not quite believe that the authority of Magistratum could be so brazenly challenged. His mind railed against it. The supremacy of the law to him was incontrovertible fact.
Eventually, he returned to his horse. It was past noon, and I assumed that, given the time, we would be making our camp in the watchtower again. I was surprised, then, when an hour later we rode straight past the old fortification and into the snowy fields beyond.
I cleared my throat, conscious of the winter twilight. “Where are we going?”
“Directly to Seaguard,” Vonvalt said through gritted teeth. “I care not a jot for the rank of the man. Margrave Westenholtz will hang for this.”
X
Seaguard
“All lords should be anxious when a Justice appears, obsequious during his stay and relieved by his departure.”
OLD MAGISTRATUM PROVERB
We had already visited Seaguard once, since it had formed the zenith of our large loop away from distant Sova. But that did not make a second approach any less breathtaking. It was the last bastion of the Empire, the Autun’s outstretched claw. Beyond lay the North Sea, roiling, frigid and grey, and all that separated the mainland from the kingdoms of the hardy northmen. As with the Frontier to the south, the north held its own mystique, a frightening and desolate land of cold, miserable steppe and cold, miserable people.
Seaguard was a huge fortress, once the seat of the old Hauner kings before Haunersheim had been subsumed into the Empire half a century before. Its walls, towers and keep were all fashioned from the same local black stone, and I had heard it described by many as Kasivar’s house. It was an apt description. The place had been designed to inspire terror, and looking at those huge, obsidian-dark walls rearing up from the cliffs, I could say with confidence that the designers had succeeded in their goal.
Given how often the northmen raided the coastal towns and ports of Haunersheim, in spite of the rangings undertaken by the garrison, many had decided to up sticks and live in the shadow of the fortress itself – defying Imperial ordinances in doing so, since most Imperial fortresses liked to keep a good half-mile of ground clear around the outermost curtain wall. It was therefore through a burgeoning town that we travelled on our approach to the main gate. Here people barely stopped to look at us; they were used to seeing Sovan officials coming and going to Seaguard. Instead they carried on with the dreary stiffness of the perennially cold, haggard from cruel winters and the constant fear of attack. The snow here had been trampled into muddy slush, and the air was redolent of cookfire smoke and seawater.
The walls loomed as we drew up to the gatehouse. The fortress was sheer, a cliff face of thick stone wall forty feet high, and I watched as cloaked soldiers in the red, yellow and blue livery of the Empire patrolled it above. They must have been able to see thirty miles on a clear day. Seabirds trilled above them, searching for scraps of fish among the township below.
We were accosted by guards at the gate, who recognised us from our previous visit and who allowed us entry without undue delay. Stable boys were quick to relieve us of our horses, and the duty serjeant ducked out of his station at the foot of the gatehouse to provide the first layer of official greeting.
“Justice,” he said, bowing. He was a big man, undoubtedly strong but with a hint of fatness that came from living off a castle larder. The margrave was a stern man – such was his reputation – but he treated his men well. It was an unpleasant duty, garrisoning Seaguard and patrolling the coast, but ironically it tended to attract some of the better military lords of the Empire. It was a prestigious posting, after all, from an aristocratic point of view; the castle was vast and well-provisioned, and there was guaranteed combat to be had. Many in the aristocracy jostled for the position of Margrave of Seaguard, as they did for the larger Templar forts on the southern Frontier and the eastern boundary of the River Kova.
“Serjeant,” Vonvalt replied. “I want to see the margrave immediately.”
The serjeant bowed nervously. “I can take you to the keep, sire, but I can’t guarantee an immediate audience with the margrave.”
We followed the serjeant through the outer bailey, which, thanks to a liberal distribution of straw, had mostly avoided being trampled to stinking mud by the comings and goings of dozens of armed men and their horses, and then through a smaller, secondary gatehouse into the inner bailey. The ground was paved here, and overlooked by a wide wooden mezzanine with retractable steps which provided the only access into the keep. The ostentation which I had seen at other Imperial strongholds and wayforts – some little more than large country mansions with the odd bit of crenellation – was absent here.
The serjeant led us up the stairs to the main entrance, a small arched door enclosed by multiple iron lattices. After some back-and-forth with another guard, we entered a low, dingy passageway that took us to the disarming room. Here Vonvalt surrendered his sword and dagger to an apologetic guard, and then we proceeded into the main entrance hall.
And there we remained.
We must have been waiting for almost half an hour before one of the margrave’s retainers appeared, a young man clad in expensive-looking clothes of fine wool. “Sir Konrad, forgive me,” he said, bowing disingenuously low. “Lord Westenholtz is occupied with pressing matters of a military nature at this time. He bids you welcome and asks if you would accept his hospitality. I have been instructed to show you to private quarters and provide you with victuals – should it please you?”
Vonvalt ground his teeth. As the Emperor’s representative his authority was extensive. He was the embodiment of Imperial justice. I had seen him stride into delicate meetings between highly ranked Sovan nobles, interrupt important court proceedings and even bring a wedding to a grinding halt. But he was always careful to avoid interrupting military matters. Notwithstanding the fact that his warrant of authority would happily take him into the heart of the most sensitive martial briefings between the highest-ranking generals in the land, he rightly considered it imprudent. The Imperial Magistratum had long ago found that to interfere with the Emperor’s armies was to walk headlong into the curtain wall of His office’s executive power.
The margrave was clearly a savvy operator and knew that Vonvalt, unless he was feeling particularly reckless, would have no choice but to wait. It was a power move, and it offended Vonvalt to his core to be stung in such a way.
“I see,” Vonvalt said eventually. He said it mainly to discomfit the messenger, who, in fairness, needed more discomfort in his life.
We stood in silence for a few moments. Eventually, the retainer said, “Would the Justice like me to show him to his quarters?”
Another silence. The retainer squirmed.
“I suppose that you shall have to,” Vonvalt said eventually.
We made awkward progress through the castle. The retainer moved hesitantly, as though Vonvalt might strike him from behind at any moment. The keep was well-appointed with tapestries and rugs and hearths, and, despite the odd frigid draught from an embrasure, was pleasantly warm. More modern Sovan fortresses, most of which bordered the provinces of the Kova Confederation to the east, had ducts underneath their wooden flooring to direct and circulate the hot air more efficiently. For the Autun’s many and extensive faults, ingenuity was not among them.
The rooms we were shown to were luxurious state apartments which did not, unlike the castle’s exterior, want for ostentation. As with much of the rest of the keep, the walls and floors were smothered in tapestries and rugs, and decent-sized windows of lead-latticed glass provided outstanding views of the North Sea. It was about as far as it was possible to get from our meagre quarters in the Gabler’s Mount watchtower.
“Have some food and ale brought to my room,” Vonvalt said. “Enough for two of us. My clerk will dine with me. I have no wish to make a common mess this evening.”
The retainer bowed, eager to be shot of this prickly customer. “Certainly, sire.”
“And inform the margrave that he is summoned to me the instant his military matters are dispensed with. Be sure to use that precise wording.”
The retainer, facing an impossible situation, could only nod weakly.
“Good,” Vonvalt said. “We’ll have our baggage brought here too. And arrange to have our clothes washed.”
“Sire.”
“You are dismissed,” Vonvalt said to the man. “And see that you carry out my instructions with alacrity, or I’ll have you whipped along with your master.”
No messenger came. Vonvalt was exercised into a quiet fury over the course of the evening, and was abysmal company. When it eventually became clear that the margrave was not going to speak with us, we retired to our beds.
That night I dreamt of a solitary watchtower standing on an infinite white plain. I could not help but approach it, though it filled me with dread. The instant I stepped over the threshold I woke up in a blind panic, convinced I had heard Sir Otmar’s voice in my ear; but there was nothing, just the knocks and thumps of a castle that never knew a moment’s peace.
I slept the rest of the night fitfully, as though suffering in the throes of a fever dream, and awoke before dawn, red-eyed and exhausted, waiting for the winter sun’s wan glow to fill the room.
In the morning we readied ourselves and ate breakfast in the common hall. By virtue of Vonvalt’s position, we were able – indeed, expected – to dine at the top table, and did so surrounded by a small array of the margrave’s knightly retainers. Some were cold, damp and muddy, having spent the night patrolling the coast as far as Enos, the nearest town to the west. Others were fresh and clean, preparing to disembark on the day range.
“Are you here on official business, Justice?” one of the knights opposite Vonvalt asked. His surcoat was a blue so dark it was nearly black, with the white gull device of Margrave Westenholtz displayed across his chest. He smelled of saltwater and his face was speckled with mud.
“After a fashion,” Vonvalt replied humourlessly.
“If one of my men has done something to warrant your attentions, sire, I’ll hang the man myself, mark my words. This is a place of law and justice.”
“Aye,” another knight chipped in. I could see that he had a Savaran cross on a chain around his neck. “We are a godly company. We have already sent two dozen men south these past few weeks, to join the host marshalling at Vasaya. And the margrave has seen fit to spare thirty more.”
Vonvalt grunted. “I saw no such host. And we came up the Relay directly.”
Of course, we had but passed through Vasaya in the dead of night; it was no surprise we hadn’t seen anything.
“’Tis there, Justice,” the knight said earnestly. “A few hundred men from the Northmark, by now. Patria Claver has promised the Patricians he will push the Frontier out by a hundred miles.”
Vonvalt smiled thinly. I was keenly aware that one of the knights who had put the torch to Rill might have been sat at the table with us.
“Let us hope that they meet with success,” he said eventually. He came off as sour and stand-offish, and despite the efforts of a few other knights, he could not be drawn into further conversation. He and I ate in silence while the soldiers ate rambunctiously, the night patrol trading banter with those about to undertake the daylight range. In spite of the many protections I had both spoken and unspoken, I felt uncomfortable. Soldiers, Imperial or otherwise, lordly or lowborn, were often little better than brigands, and only separated from such by a uniform.
We finished our breakfast and made to leave. At that moment, a man whom I had seen loitering in the wings suddenly stepped into our path. For a brief, wild moment I thought it was another assassin.
“Sir Konrad?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Lord Westenholtz awaits your pleasure, milord.”
“You’d better take me to him then, hadn’t you?” Vonvalt said.
The messenger bowed, wrong-footed by Vonvalt’s tone, and led us out of the mess hall and back through the castle. We were taken to the same floor that our quarters had been on, but now to the other corner of the keep, where the margrave’s private apartment was.
Ordinarily we would have seen the margrave in the audience chamber on the ground floor. It was where the man would hold court, hear local petitions and administer the lands which Seaguard was responsible for managing on behalf of the Emperor. The very fact that we were being ushered to the man’s private quarters was telling. He clearly did not want to see his authority questioned in front of his men. It was a problem with this type of lord, presiding over massive fortresses right on the fringes of the Empire. With Sova many hundreds of miles away, the margrave would enjoy unchecked authority over his dominion. Vonvalt was very much an unwelcome guest for a man who had grown accustomed to being his own liege lord.
We were shown into a solar. Here the light streamed in from two large windows, which looked out over the naval yards below. A forest of masts, each attached to a seagoing carrack, swayed in the winds. Imperial colours fluttered and snapped. Beyond, tossing on the rolling waves, I could see one such ship making sail across the straits, insect-sized against the roiling grey water.
The margrave was standing behind a desk, facing us as we entered. He was a tall, plain-looking man, with a shorn, stern face and dark hair. He had the muscular frame of the exercised and the lifeless grey eyes of a man well-accustomed to death in all its forms. He exuded no warmth or welcome; a mere functional nod was the only acknowledgement of our presence – unutterably rude in the circumstances. He wore a coat of brown leather over his doublet and his breeches were concealed to the knee by a pair of military-style riding boots. He wore gloves, too, and a heavy waxed cloak was draped over the back of his chair.
“I see you are about to head out,” Vonvalt remarked.
“Indeed,” Westenholtz replied. “I like to lead the ranges every now and then. It is an easy way to win the respect of the men.”
“They would not respect you otherwise?” Vonvalt asked. I knew that the meeting would be caustic, but Vonvalt did not normally give in to such petty vindictiveness.
The margrave took the barb in his stride. “They respect me well enough,” he said mildly. “You are a military man yourself. Your reputation precedes you. I know of your heroics in the Reichskrieg.”
“I do not trouble myself to remember those days very often.”
“Aye. Some men are more suited to books than the battlefield.”
My gaze shifted between the two men. I was not particularly impressed with this exchange, but I also hated the margrave. If they insisted on trading trivial barbs, I wanted Vonvalt to win.
“Empires are built and maintained with words. Swords are a mere precedent to the quill.”
“I am not a learned man, Justice,” the margrave said, shrugging. “’Tis no use quoting your withered old jurists at me. Tell me what brings you to Seaguard – again. I’m told you were here not long ago.”
“I have heard a disturbing report,” Vonvalt said.
“Oh?” the margrave asked. “Concerning this fortress?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard nothing which gives me cause for concern. As the lord and master of this castle, I—”
“You have razed the village of Rill and immolated its occupants!”
The Emperor’s Voice. It hit the room like a thunderclap. Candles were extinguished. I felt it forcefully, something simultaneously intangible and a hard physical blow. It was stunning, like someone slapping a pot helm with the flat of a sword. It would have crushed a weak-minded man and sent a strong one reeling.
