‘Oh no.’ Orso’s guts weighed heavier with every step, as though they might suddenly tear free and drop out of his arse. ‘Oh no, no, no.’
The cage creaked as it turned slowly towards him, displaying its occupant, his face awfully slack behind tangled grey hair. Malmer. The man who had led the Breakers. The man to whom Orso had promised amnesty.
‘What the fuck have you done?’ he screeched, at no one in particular. A fool’s question. The answer could scarcely have been more obvious. Their whole purpose was to make it as obvious as they possibly could.
‘We are gibbetting two hundred of the ringleaders at quarter-mile intervals along the road from Valbeck,’ droned Pike, as though Orso’s despairing shriek had been a straightforward request for information without the slightest emotional element. As though the issue was the precise positioning of the corpses, not that there were any.
‘Well … stop, damn it!’ frothed Orso, his majesty somewhat dimmed by having to hold his dressing gown up like a lady’s skirts above the road muck. ‘Fucking stop!’
One of the Practicals paused halfway through swinging his hammer, a questioning brow raised at the Superior.
‘Your Highness, I fear I cannot.’ And Pike nodded the man on, the hammer tap, tap, tapping at the nail. The Superior slid out a weighty-looking document, several signatures scrawled at the bottom, a great red and gold seal attached which Orso recognised immediately as his father’s. ‘These are the express and specific orders of His Eminence the Arch Lector, backed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council. Stopping now would do no good in any case. The two hundred traitors have already confessed and been executed. All that remains is to display them.’
‘Without trial?’ Orso’s voice had gone terribly shrill. Hysterical, almost. He tried to bring it under control and failed entirely. ‘Without process? Without—’
Now Pike turned his lashless, loveless eyes on him. ‘Your father has granted the Inquisition extraordinary powers to examine, try and execute the perpetrators of this rebellion at once. His edict countermands your feelings, Your Highness, or mine, or, indeed, anyone’s.’
‘But I fear there was never really an alternative.’ Yoru Sulfur was lying on the back of the wagon, perfectly at ease among the hanging posts with one hand behind his head. His highly specific diet evidently allowed fruit, as he had a half-eaten apple in the other. He had different-coloured eyes, Orso noticed as he gazed up calmly at the gibbet, one blue, one green. ‘I have seen many cases like this and, take my word for it, justice must fall like lightning. Swift and merciless.’
‘Lightning rarely strikes those who deserve it,’ grated Orso.
‘Who among us is entirely innocent?’ Sulfur bared his teeth to take a bite from his apple and thoughtfully chewed. ‘Could you really have let these Breakers go? To scatter to the winds and spread chaos across the Union? To foment further uprisings? To teach the lesson that murder, riot and treason are small matters, hardly to be remarked upon and certainly not punished?’
‘I promised them amnesty,’ muttered Orso, his voice getting weaker with every syllable.
‘You said what had to be said to bring this unfortunate episode to a close. To ensure stability. A stable Union means a stable world, my master is always saying.’
‘You cannot be held to your word by traitors, Your Highness,’ added Pike.
Orso winced at the mud. He realised his cock was still painfully trapped behind his belt and hooked a surreptitious thumb through his dressing gown to let it flop loose, all trace of morning magnificence entirely wilted. Sulfur’s arguments were proving hard to disagree with. Ruling a great nation seemed a much more complex business than it had a few moments ago in the privacy of his tent. And what could he do about it anyway? Unhang the Breakers? His useless anger was already guttering out, replaced by equally useless guilt.
‘What will people think of me?’ he whispered.
‘They will think that, like Harod and Casamir and the great kings of old, you are a man who does what must be done!’ Sulfur nibbled away at the core of his apple and wagged a finger. ‘Mercy is an admirable quality in smallfolk, but I fear it does not keep kings in power.’
‘Feel free to use me as the villain again,’ added Pike. ‘I must accept that I am somewhat typecast.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘And now please excuse me, Your Highness, there is a great deal to be done. You should return to Adua with all speed. Your father will be keen to congratulate you.’
Sulfur stripped his apple to the stalk and flicked it away, lazing back in the gibbet’s shadow with one hand behind his curly head. ‘I don’t doubt you will have made him very proud. My master, too.’
Father would be very proud. Not to mention this fool’s master. One of Malmer’s trouser legs had ridden up to show his calf, grey hairs on the pale skin stirring faintly with the wind. One eye was closed, but the other seemed to peer down in Orso’s direction. He had heard it said that dead men have no opinions, but this one appeared to hold an exceptionally low one of Orso even so. Almost as low as he did himself.
‘Not quite the end to our adventure we were hoping for.’ Tunny had walked up, a steaming cup of tea in one hand. ‘But it’s an end, I suppose.’
Orso was not sure he had ever liked the man less than at that moment. ‘Why didn’t you get me?’ he grated out.
‘It was my impression that you were otherwise engaged.’ Tunny cleared his throat significantly. ‘And what good would it have done?’
‘I could’ve … I could’ve …’ Orso struggled to find the words. ‘Stopped this.’
Tunny handed him the cup and gave his shoulder a fatherly pat. ‘No, you couldn’t.’
Orso considered flinging the tea in his face, but his mouth really was very dry, so he took a sip instead. Above, the gibbet groaned and Malmer turned slowly away.
Orso the Merciful, might the historians call him, looking back admiringly on his achievements?
It did not seem likely.
Two of a Kind
‘How are you?’
Leo winced as he stretched out his injured leg. ‘Still a bit sore.’
‘It could have been far worse.’
He winced again as he pressed at the cut in his side. ‘No doubt.’
His mother reached up and brushed his bandaged cheek gently with her thumb. ‘I fear you’ll have some scars, Leo.’
‘Warriors should, don’t you think? In the North they call them Naming Wounds.’
‘I think we’ve had our fill of Northern customs over the last few days.’
‘A break wouldn’t hurt.’ Leo took a long breath. ‘Rikke hasn’t been to see me.’
‘The outcome of the duel did not please her.’
‘She’d rather I’d died?’
‘She’d rather Nightfall had. She was quite vocal on that point.’
‘She’s quite vocal on every bloody point,’ grumbled Leo. Rikke might seem an ever-gushing spring of laughs but he was starting to see there was a well of deep grudges beneath. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I think you spared Nightfall because you have a big heart.’
‘Meaning I have a little brain?’
‘Stolicus said to kill an enemy is cause for relief. To make a friend of him is cause for celebration.’ Her eyes met his. That look she had when she wanted him to learn a lesson. ‘If you could make a friend of the Great Wolf … if you could build an alliance with the North …’ She let it hang there.
Leo blinked at her. ‘Even now you’re thinking of the next step.’
‘A runner who does not think of the next step will fall flat.’
‘If Rikke’s sore at Nightfall being alive, how’s she going to feel about him being a friend?’
‘If you want to be a great lord governor, her feelings cannot dictate your policy any more than mine. Or even yours. You have to do the best for the most. Do you want to be a great lord governor, Leo?’