inevitable, so we’ll let them think it was a natural end. Otherwise, our noble Lords Lorca and Silais are likely stupid enough to accuse us of treason in the midst of this … mess.’
Each of the priests nodded and their voices swelled louder, urging Rastoth’s spirit to begin breaking its anchors to his dying, rotting flesh.
‘Opium?’ Hallos murmured, selecting a small jar with a hand that didn’t – and Durdil felt should – shake.
‘You’ll never get him to swallow it. Will you?’
Hallos’s smile was weary and sad. ‘There are things you will never know of my art, my old friend. Don’t worry. Just … say your goodbyes, yes? We should do it quickly, now the decision has been made. We should spare him any more of this … this sham of life.’
Hallos stepped out of his way and Durdil looked again at his king, his decades-long friend, lying still and pale against the pillows. Rastoth’s breath came in tiny pants, clammy sweat glistening in the gloom. His hands were claws. From the open window came the sound of a dog-boy playing with a litter of puppies, uncaring of the dying king or besieged city.
Durdil fell to one knee by the bed, his armour clattering about his shoulders. ‘Sire, forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘I should have protected you, kept you safe …’ The man might be old and mad, but he was Durdil’s king and Durdil’s friend.
‘I will save Rilporin, Rastoth. I will save our country and our gods, our people. All of it. I swear on my hope of reaching the Light. When we meet again, I …’ He choked back a sob.
Hallos squeezed past him and an involuntary denial sprang to Durdil’s lips, a hand reaching to stop the cup on its way to Rastoth’s lips.
Erik rounded the bed and pulled him gently to his feet. ‘Your last act for your king, Commander, should be the one that brings him peace,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t interfere now. Pray.’
Durdil’s lips began moving in prayer as the priests sang, as Hallos raised Rastoth’s head with pillows and tipped small, patient sips of wine and opium into his mouth, massaging his throat until he swallowed. Rastoth’s breathing slowed as the drug stole his pain, as it relaxed his limbs, as it took his mind far, far away from the ruin of his body and the ashes of his reign.
Durdil crowded close, found Rastoth’s leg beneath the covers and rested his hand there. ‘Marisa’s waiting,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Marisa and Janis both. In the Light. Waiting for you. Tell her I said hello and … and ask her to forgive me. I failed you, all three of you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Something that might have been a smile, or just the last twitch of dying muscles, crossed his face, and then Rastoth the Kind, Rastoth the Mad, exhaled a last, bubbling breath and died.
Durdil stared in silence at the council gathered in the war room, his fingers steepled before his lips. His eyes were red with fatigue and grief, and he’d delivered the news of Rastoth’s death into a silence that was thick with alliances and churning with calculation. As expected, both Lords Lorca and Silais were clearly vying to win the majority of the council and be the next power in Rilporin. Perhaps even to sit on the throne.
‘My lords, as grievous as this news is, I will not be releasing it to the populace or the Rank. Nor will we be flying the scarlet or declaring a week of official mourning, as is customary. We are at war, my lords, and as of now martial law is in effect. Those of us who live to see the siege’s conclusion can carry out the funeral rites with all pomp and ceremony at that point. For now, we concern ourselves only with the fight.’
‘This is preposterous; you have not the authority,’ Lord Lorca began, his silver tongue momentarily losing its sheen. ‘King Rastoth must be—’
‘King Rastoth is dead. We the living have more important things to worry about than feasting his memory or arguing about interim governments. The state of the wall, for instance. The enemy’s trebuchets have been loosing at it for days now. The Stonemasons’ Guild is inspecting it daily for weaknesses. I’ve asked them to—’
‘You do not ask the stonemasons anything,’ Silais muttered, ‘not if you want them to actually do anything. You order them. Order, I say.’
‘Thank you for your opinion, Lord Silais, but they’re working ceaselessly and providing regular reports,’ Durdil said. ‘There is little more I, or they, can do than that. I have also spoken with the pigeon-master, and it appears that while he was in the city, Prince Rivil—’
‘King Rivil, surely,’ a voice said. Durdil glanced at Questrel Chamberlain. The man simpered and smoothed down his oiled hair. ‘By right and blood, my lords, Commander, the prince is now our king. Surely we should address him as such.’
A babble rose among the nobles, ermine flying as they gesticulated, the volume increasing, the tone becoming angry, strident. Durdil steepled his hands again and leant back in his chair, waiting, the sound of arguing noblemen washing over him.
It got louder before it got quieter, but eventually more and more councillors noticed Durdil was taking no part in the debate. They loathed him to a man, but he was Commander of the Ranks and led the defence. The decision, ultimately, was his. Either he opened the gates to Rivil, proclaiming him king … or he didn’t, proclaiming them all traitors to the throne.
A fine choice. I cannot wait to make it.
Durdil waited until there was silence, and then he waited a few moments longer until they were squirming.
‘My lords, Prince Rivil attempted regicide. Before that he was implicated in his own mother’s murder and converted to the bloodthirsty faith of our ancient enemies by way of killing his brother, the rightful heir to the throne. There is no man more unfit to rule our great country than he. As I began to say, the pigeon-master confirms that all birds trained to fly to Highcrop in Listre, the home of the only surviving – and distant – member of the line of succession, were killed by Rivil or the Lord Galtas Morellis. We cannot inform Lord Tresh that Rastoth has fallen, that Rivil is cast out of the succession. Once this siege is lifted, however, I will send an emissary to his lordship with all haste, informing him that he is now our king.’
‘Tresh? Never heard of ’im,’ a voice muttered.
‘Not even a full blood,’ another whispered. ‘More Listran than Rilporian. Listran, I ask you!’
‘Tresh is a bastard, isn’t he?’
‘King Tresh,’ Durdil snapped, his temper wearing ever thinner, ‘is by all accounts a studious man and astute judge of character. He will make a fine king, especially with a council such as this to advise him.’
To hinder him, to kiss his arse and bleed him dry and blind him to all but their wants, their needs, their desires. If only the gods would allow me to put every last bloody one of them in the catapult baskets and send them out to meet their foes.
Durdil bit down on a smile as he imagined the long, drawn-out wail of outrage Lorca would make as he flew skyward. Please, Dancer, just one.
‘Until then, my lords, we remain at war. And martial law is the order of the day.’
‘I support your proposal,’ Lorca said, though they both knew it was no such thing. ‘Take steps to curb the unruly peasantry even now hoarding food from their betters and breathe new strength into our men. A good thing, too. Some of them flag already.’
Already? They’ve been defending this city for over a fortnight. They’ve done more for Rilporin and its people in that time than you have in your entire life. They spend their lives like coppers, without thought, and they do it for the city and the king. They do it, gods love them, for me. And I have to order them to … calm, Durdil. Calm.
Durdil found that his grief and his fatigue combined to make a heady, dangerous, short-tempered brew. He raised his fist to his mouth and bit the knuckle hard, focusing on the pain as the muttering swelled anew.
‘If that is