The Justice of Kings, page 40
Eventually they stopped outside the door of a brothel, and for a horrible moment I wondered whether I had got it all wrong and they were just out to achieve an entirely different kind of satisfaction. Then I saw a man in the doorway, and I recognised him immediately as one of Sir Radomir’s men from Galen’s Vale. They exchanged a few quiet words, then the man slunk off and Vonvalt and Sir Radomir entered, closing the door behind them.
I looked about. There was no way I would be able to gain entry, but the surrounding houses were dilapidated and tumbledown and easily scaled. My time on the streets of Muldau had made me an excellent climber and given me a good eye for it, and in no time I had hoisted myself up on to the thatch of the adjacent roof. I looked through a few windows and quickly found what I was looking for: Obenpatria Fischer, being ridden with false enthusiasm by a bored whore.
Seconds after I had taken my place in the shadows, the door to the priest’s room was kicked in. Sir Radomir and Vonvalt entered, swords drawn. The girl pulled out a knife from nowhere and pressed it to Fischer’s throat. I watched as a brief stand-off ensued while Vonvalt took over proceedings; then the girl recovered her clothes – and a purse of coin from Sir Radomir – and left.
My heart pounded. I moved closer until I drew within a few feet of the window. The glass was of poor quality and fit, and the conversation bled easily through the gaps and into the cool night air.
“What in Kasivar’s name is this all about, Justice? It is over. Let me be on my way and we shall forget about this,” Fischer said. His voice was shaky and weak.
“Put some clothes on,” Vonvalt said to the priest. The man hastily complied, pulling on his undergarments and purple habit. “Sit down. This will not take long.”
“Sir Konrad, please – you already have my confession.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sir Radomir snapped.
Silence fell. Vonvalt took a breath.
“How did you get here from Roundstone?”
The Emperor’s Voice. It hit the air like a thunderclap. I jumped. I found it impossible to acclimate to that initial force.
“By boat… down the Kova.”
“Did you travel with Claver?”
“Y-yes!”
“Where is he?”
“Further south!” Fischer gasped. The words came out hoarsely, dragged from his unwilling throat like a fish from a river. “To the Frontier!”
“Where? Südenberg? Keraq? Zetland?”
“Yes… gnn… one of those!”
“Which one?”
“I know not!”
“What is the name of the boat?”
“I do not know!” The man was gasping like he was on the rack.
“Where did Claver get his powers from?”
“Gah! Please! Stop!”
“Where? Is there a member of the Order working with him?”
“Y-yes! I don’t know the name, please!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!” Fischer gasped. Blood trickled from his nose. His eyes were as wide as saucers.
Silence. Fischer fell to quietly weeping. Vonvalt and Sir Radomir stood there. Vonvalt lowered his sword and then took a seat in the corner. Sir Radomir continued to point his at the priest, but the man was in no shape to try anything.
Vonvalt pressed the tip of his sword into floorboards between his feet. He rested his hands on the pommel and his chin on his hands. When he spoke, it was quietly. Using the Voice used up a great deal of energy, but it was not just that. The man was tired, and, I think, profoundly melancholic. I had to strain to hear him.
“When I was a boy in Jägeland, before the Reichskrieg arrived, we had a very old saying: ‘The Justice of Kings’. Like all very old sayings it had taken on a number of meanings over the years, but my father was a lawman himself, and he told me that the Justice of Kings actually had a very specific meaning. You see, like the Sovans, we Jägelanders had a system of justice whereby guilt was decided by a jury drawn from the accused’s town. But if someone was adjudged innocent by that jury, the king could still be petitioned to intervene. Even if your peers, the commonfolk, had absolved you of all criminal culpability, the king could still have you executed if he thought the wrong decision had been reached.” He paused, briefly lost in thought. He shook his head. “The Justice of Kings,” he murmured to himself.
Then he stood, and walked towards Fischer.
“Of course, it is the Emperor’s Justice, now.”
The priest barely had time to shriek. He was still half-stupid from being battered by the Voice. He tried to leap up and parry the sword with his hands, and ended up losing both of them. He stared at the geysering stumps of his wrists with wide eyes, and let out a single grunt of horrified surprise, before Vonvalt’s short-sword plunged into his neck, severing his spine cleanly in two. He collapsed and banged unceremoniously off the bed before coming to a bloody stop on the floor.
That I had expected it did not make it easier to witness. In spite of my hand being clamped firmly over my mouth, a muted screech did escape.
Vonvalt called out to me without taking his eyes from Fischer’s corpse.
“Helena: get back to your room. We have an early start tomorrow.”
With the benefit of long hindsight, it is easy to say that the murder of Obenpatria Fischer, with Vonvalt’s blood two weeks cooled, was the point at which he turned. He did not become a bad person, or change fundamentally overnight. But between the Vale and Ossica there had been time for him to step back from the brink and take stock, to realign himself with the forces of absolute good. Instead, the extrajudicial killing of Fischer set in stone the relaxation of Vonvalt’s personal and professional code which would change how he approached the question of justice – and of being a Justice – for the rest of his life.
The death of Fischer in any event marks the end of this part of my story. We all found ourselves changed by it, and it represented a capstone for our time in Galen’s Vale. I too, changed, for I did not speak out. I did not chastise Vonvalt for the slayings of Vogt and Bauer either, for although they had deserved to die, without the jury’s verdict, Vonvalt had committed the crime of murder. And before them, too, was the Templar on the Hauner road. I wish I had acknowledged the signs earlier, the signs of his moral decline.
The following morning I was roused at dawn. We did not discuss what had happened the night before. I allowed myself to be led, wordlessly, to the stables. There Vonvalt and Sir Radomir were already packed and mounted, and Bressinger was in the cart, still half-stupid from pain and wine.
“Our destination remains Sova,” Vonvalt said to me without preamble. “Will you come? Decide quickly.”
I nodded. There was nothing to say – or rather, there were too many things to say. I mounted my horse, and soon we were on our way. In two weeks it would be the month of Sorpen and the first day of spring, and indeed a new beginning for all of us, for better or worse.
There followed many adventures. Some had happy outcomes; others were dreadful and their ramifications are still being felt to this day. I shall get to committing as many of them to paper as my time permits. The story of Sir Konrad Vonvalt, after all, is the story of the rise and fall of the Sovan Empire.
But I am an old woman now, and my eyes are sore, and my hand needs a rest.
Acknowledgements
This is the second novel I have submitted to Orbit for publication. The first, Celestial Fire, was an epic space opera I co-authored when I was fifteen with a school friend called George Diggory. Agentless, clueless and talentless, we posted the book in hard copy (it is extraordinary to think that only seventeen years ago the internet was still largely redundant) to Orbit, where it no doubt languished on the slush pile before being dismissed by an editor as too dangerous, too provocative and too ahead of its time for commercial publication.
Seventeen years later (and probably about seventeen novels too) I have returned to Orbit, agented, clued-up and moderately talented, with The Justice of Kings. That this has happened is down to me (sort of), the vagaries of Fate and the interventions of a number of people whom it is only right to acknowledge here.
In the first instance, I would like to thank George Lockett, Will Smith and Tim Johnson, my brain trust of beta readers, for their insights, recommendations and in some instances needlessly scathing feedback. You have each brought something to this book, and I am grateful for it.
The second order of thanks belongs to my agent, Harry Illingworth, for his own editorial efforts (pace!), patient assistance and savvy advice. Thank you, Harry, for cracking open the gate and letting me in to the world of traditional publication – it’s somewhere I’ve wanted to be for a very long time.
Penultimately, thanks go to the Orbit team, and specifically to my editor, James Long, for, well, editing the book, and everything that goes with it. It is not controversial to say that The Justice of Kings would be much worse, much shorter and much less published without you.
Finally, thank you to my wife, Sophie, for making sure I have the time – often at the expense of your own – to write. I could not have written this book without your support.
The Justice of Kings is dedicated to my friend and mind-clone Will, who was there at the very beginning of my writing journey, and, troublingly, might very well be there at the end of it too.
Richard
London, April 2020
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Richard Swan, The Justice of Kings
