‘And Scale Ironhand has invaded the Dogman’s Protectorate.’
The king paused, glass halfway to his mouth. ‘You heard about that?’
‘I’ve been in a whorehouse, not down a well. Adua’s buzzing with the news.’
‘Since when did you care about politics?’
‘I care about a crowd of barbarians burning the cities of our allies, spreading blood and murder and threatening to invade the sovereign territory of the Union. I’m the heir to the bloody throne, aren’t I?’
The king wiped his lustrous moustaches – grey shot with gold these days, rather than gold shot with grey – and wriggled his fingers back into his glove. ‘Since when did you care about being heir to the throne?’
‘I’ve always cared,’ he lied, tossing the glass rattling back onto the tray and making the servant gasp as he weaved about trying to stop it falling. ‘I’ve just … had some trouble expressing it. Ready, old man?’
‘Always, young pup!’ The king sprang forward, jabbing. Their long steels feathered together, pinged and scraped. The king stabbed with his short steel but Orso caught it on his own, held it, turned. They broke apart, circling one another, Orso’s eyes on the point of his father’s long steel, but flicking occasionally to his leading foot. His Majesty had a habit of twisting it before he struck.
‘You’re a fine swordsman, you know,’ said the king. ‘I swear you’ve the talent to win a Contest.’
‘Talent? Possibly. Dedication, stamina, commitment? Never.’
‘You could be a true master if you practised more than once a month.’
‘If I practise once a year, it’s a busy one.’ In fact, Orso practised at least once a week, but had his father known, he might have suspected that Orso was letting him win. You wouldn’t have thought the monarch of the most powerful nation in the Circle of the World would care about beating his own son in the fencing circle, but throwing a touch or two was always the surest way for Orso to get what he wanted.
‘So … what are we planning to do about the Northmen?’ he asked.
‘We?’ The point of his father’s long steel flicked against Orso’s.
‘All right, you.’
‘Me?’ And flicked the other way.
‘Your Closed Council, then.’
‘They plan to do precisely nothing.’
‘What?’ Orso’s steel drooped. ‘But Scale Ironhand has invaded our Protectorate!’
‘That’s in no doubt.’
‘We’re supposed to be protecting it. Practically by definition!’
‘I understand the principle, boy.’ The king lunged and Orso dodged aside, hacked with his short steel, the clang of their blades making the great pink wading birds in a nearby fountain look scornfully over. ‘But principles and reality are occasional bedfellows at best.’
Like you and mother? Orso almost said, but thought that might be a little too much spice for the king’s rather bland tastes in humour. Instead, he dodged another lunge and switched to the attack, catching his father’s long steel on his, blade flickering around it and whipping it from his hand.
He caught a despairing thrust of the short steel, guards scraping, then the blade of his long flexed lightly as he jabbed the king in the shoulder.
‘Two to one,’ said Orso, slashing at the air. Wouldn’t do to let the old man win too easily. No one ever values what they get without trying, after all.
He beckoned one of the servants over with a towel while his father snapped his fingers impatiently at another to fetch his fallen sword.
‘There will always be some crisis, Orso, and it will always be the worst ever. Not long ago, we were terrified of the Gurkish, and with good reason. Half of Adua was destroyed driving them out. Now their great Prophet Khalul has vanished, their all-powerful Emperor Uthman is deposed, and their power has drifted apart like smoke on the breeze. Instead of conquering armies, it is desperate refugees who spill from the South.’
‘Can’t we take a moment to enjoy the fall of an enemy?’
‘Some of us find little to celebrate in the violent overthrow of a monarch.’
Orso winced. ‘I suppose it does strike a little close to home.’
‘All it shows is that great powers can fall as well as rise. Murcatto has almost all of Styria under her heel and the Old Empire grows in strength, challenging our hold on the Far Country and inciting yet more rebellion in Starikland. Now the bloody Northmen break our hard-won treaties and come to war again. There’s no end to their appetite for blood up there.’
‘For other people’s blood, maybe.’ Orso tossed the towel over the servant’s head and found his mark again. ‘It’s surprising how quickly the toughest men tire of the sight of their own.’
‘True enough. But it’s the enemies inside our borders that cost me sleep. The wars in Styria have left everyone out of pocket and out of patience. The Open Council never stops complaining. If the nobles didn’t hate each other even more than me, I swear they’d already be in open rebellion. The peasants may have quieter voices but they’re every bit as dissatisfied. I face disloyalty everywhere.’
‘Then we must teach a sharp lesson, Your Majesty.’ Orso cut, cut, thrust and the king turned the cuts aside, sidestepped the thrust, blundered into a bush clipped to look like a storybook magus’s tower and danced back into space. ‘A lesson delivered to the Northmen, but witnessed by your faithless subjects, too. Show our allies we can be relied upon, and our enemies that we won’t be trifled with. A clutch of victories, a couple of parades and a dash of patriotic fervour! The very thing to bring the nation together.’
‘You’re giving me the same arguments I gave to my own Closed Council, but the coffers are quite simply empty. They’re beyond empty, in fact. You could fill the moat of the Agriont with the money I owe and still have debts left over. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘But you’re the High King of the Union!’
Orso’s father gave a sad smile. ‘One day, my son, you’ll understand. The more powerful you are, the less you can really do about anything.’
The points of his steels appeared to wilt as he spoke, but it was quite clearly a ruse, Orso could tell he was ready by the way he held his back leg. Still, the king was so pleased with his trap it would have been rude not to blunder into it. Orso dived forward with a bark of triumph, then a highly convincing gurgle of shock at the parry he had known was coming. He suppressed his instinct to block the king’s short steel, let it slip past his guard and groaned as it thudded into his training jacket.
‘Two each!’ cackled Orso’s father. ‘Nothing like a bit of self-pity to bring the hothead rushing in!’
‘Richly done, Father.’
‘Life in the old dog yet, eh?’
‘Fortunately. I think we can both agree I’m not quite ready to take the throne.’
‘No one ever is, my boy. Why are you so interested in a Northern expedition, anyway?’
Orso took a deep breath and held his father’s eye. ‘I want to lead it.’
‘You want to what?’
‘I want to … you know … contribute. To something other than whores’ purses.’
His father gave a snort of laughter. ‘The last body of soldiers you led was that toy regiment the Governor of Starikland sent you when you were five years old.’
‘Then it’s high time I gained some experience. I’m the heir to the throne, aren’t I?’
‘So your mother tells me, and I try never to disagree with her.’
‘I have to mend my reputation at some point.’ Orso stepped to his mark for their deciding touch, hacking a muddy divot out of the perfect lawn with his heel. ‘Poor thing’s in a wretched state.’