Chapter Three

  The King’s Army

  “You are the late Lord Blackwater’s son, every inch. You are his spitting image, you know that?” The King smiled wistfully, “Well, when he was still a vigorous man.”

  “So I am told, Majesty,” Karlos said solemnly and bowed his head.

  King Victus nodded, “He was a loyal servant, you know? My most loyal, one might say, and my greatest, in his day. Alas, those days are a faded memory. Your presence rekindles my spirit.”

  Karlos remained silent, waiting for the king to continue. Sometimes the old king paused in thought, or forgot himself. It was not the first time he had been kept waiting while the king stared off, recalling older days. He could only wait respectfully and patiently in thought, standing before the monarch. He did not know where this discussion was going. He was sure his mother would be pleased, though she would see the recognition as some kind of blessing from his royal majesty. Karlos saw them for what they were, the musings of a dottering old man. His mother, Lady Margaretta Blackwater, the matriarch of one of the great families of Vastrum, a name and honour given, through marriage, by his dead, disgraced father to his mother and to him. He flinched, though, whenever his father was brought up. His relation to the man who had lost Vurun, and thus brought disgrace upon their house, had once been an honour, now brought him embarrassment, though he was sure the king meant well. Lord Blackwater, the great general of Vastrum, had been one of the king’s foremost companions. Command of Vurun had been intended as a gift. Despite the loss, the king still remembered his old friend fondly, even if the greater part of the empire did not.

  Lord Blackwater, his father, had been old when Karlos was born. Margaretta was no longer young, but she was many years his junior. The match had been made for power and wealth, an opportunistic move to tie the royal house of Styrania to the high nobility of Vastrum. It had worked marvellously for his mother’s family. Now his father was gone, and Margaretta had taken complete control of the noble house. Nominally, his older brother, Fernando, was in control of their house and holdings, but in reality, it was their mother, Margaretta, who pulled the strings. That was always how it was with her. She got her way. It was a father’s duty to name his sons, but for some reason, she had got her way with that, too. Karlos. Fernando. They were Styranian names. The western kingdom lay south of Vastrum and had long been an ally against rivals such as Fyranis and Gant. Kingdoms in the west had come and gone, but Styrania stood. Perhaps its former glory had faded somewhat, its empire now confined to a few stretches of coastline, some peninsulas, islands, and small colonies. What Styrania lacked now in scope and wealth, it made up for in its old bones and prestige. Karlos preferred the vast, nearly uncontested power of Vastrum to his mother’s heritage, or at least he had until his dottering old father had made a fool of himself in Vurun. Karlos was fortunate that his mother had arranged for him to serve as a guard in the king’s household, otherwise he very likely would have died with his father. At best, he might have been captured and ransomed. That did not suit Karlos much. He preferred to be with the court, where he could spend his time seducing the unmarried noblewomen and dining on the finest offerings. Still, he longed many days for an opportunity to prove his worth and to step from the shadow of his dead father.

  The King shifted with a start, breaking from his reverie, “Karlos, where were we?” He asked.

  “You were telling me of my father, Lord Blackwater.”

  “Oh, yes. I find myself distracted of late. This business in the north is most vexing,” The king mused. He did not sound vexed particularly.

  “Indeed, sir. Most vexing,” Karlos agreed. He would have agreed with anything the king said. He would have agreed that the sky were orange. You did not disagree with the king, not when you wanted to get ahead. In this case, it happened to be true.

  The rebellion seemed to grow larger every passing day. They had reports from dozens of cities and from nearly every colony that the mutiny had spread. First, it was a small mutiny in Ayodh. Then the whole province was up in arms. Then went Kathalamanyr. There were even reports now of places as far away as Huz and Dravan that had risen. Even distant outposts of the Vastrum Aethium Company in independent cities such as Ghinai and Andaban had gone silent. The news from the front was terrible. Colonists dead, garrisons burned, whole armies of sepoys gone rogue, but the worst were those places from which issued only silence. No letters or pledges of loyalty, no reports of violence. It was as if whole colonies had been wiped from the map. The only place of safety, where no uprising was currently engaged, was here in Gulud, where the king had stopped on his tour of the subcontinent. Loyal, faithful Gulud. There was no sense that this land was in turmoil at all, the streets were quiet and orderly. The only sign that anything was wrong was the regiments being gathered near the city. Some were loyal Guludan sepoys, others were Vastrum regiments that had travelled with the king to Gulud. Then there was the great army that had just returned from Durzan, headed by Marshal Lothian. Together with Haddock, these two great armies would sweep the rebellion away and restore order to the empire. That was the hope. Karlos was not so sure. What had taken two and a half centuries to build through careful political manoeuvring, trade, and partnerships had been undone in a few weeks of chaos and fury. If they took back the land and the cities, what then? Did they intend to continue as before? It seemed impossible. No, this marked a change that would last, however much many wanted to deny it. Win or lose, the empire would never be the same. King Victus spent many of his days now denying that fact. That, and staring in a daze out at the gardens through the big windows of the raja’s palace in Gulud.

  “I will need you,” The king said, “I need my most loyal subjects now more than ever.”

  “You will always have it,” Karlos answered.

  The king ignored his reply, “I intend to go and lead my armies to victory.”

  Karlos paused. This was new. He was uncertain how to answer. A king of Vastrum had not led his own armies to war in a hundred years or more. Perhaps the kings of old did such things, but not a modern monarch. It was unheard of, and for good reason. A good king knew his limits. He left war to the experts, the career soldiers and officers who staffed his army, good men of noble lines and a lifetime of training and experience. A king leading the army seemed a foolish thing. Still, Karlos nodded sagely. He would tell the king the sky were orange, if asked. That was what his mother had always told him. Do not deny the king.

  “Of course, as your majesty wishes,” He said, bowing his head, “May I send word to your military council that you wish to convene them?”

  The king scoffed, “They are a pack of vain, preening ne'er-do-wells. They are dragging their feet with this campaign. I do not wish to speak with them.”

  “Yet, they are your generals, yes?” Karlos urged.

  “Fa!” The king cried, “They only exist to deny me what I ask.”

  “But shall I call them?”

  The king shrugged, “Yes, and call that fool of a secretary of mine.”

  “Charles?” Karlos asked.

  “Yes, who bloody else? Off with you,” He gestured to Karlos, then turned to a silent native servant who stood nearby, “I need a sherry, eh? Quickly, boy!”

  Karlos bowed low and backed away slowly, then turned and left to find those the king had called for. Charles was just in the next room, sitting at a simple desk, writing with a tall quill pen.

  “Charles?” Karlos knocked on the door.

  “What?” The secretary asked without looking up.

  “The king intends to lead the army to war,” Karlos began.

  The feather of the quill pen stopped dancing, and Charles looked up at him, gaunt face staring at him incredulously over his spectacles, “Pardon?” He asked, “Is this a jest?”

  “Hardly, sir. The king intends to go to war.”

  “Well, he can hardly make such a decision,” Charles began, standing and readying himself to hurry off.

  Karlos sat on the desk and shook his finger at the secretary, chuckling, “The king commands it. He is in one of his fine moods. He will not be receptive to any suggestion to the contrary.”

  The king’s secretary pursed his lips, “I assume he wanted his generals so he could share the good news?”

  Karlos nodded, picked up an apple from the secretary’s desk, and took a giant bite. It was crisp and so juicy that a spray of juice flew, accidentally, into Charles’ face.

  The man flinched slightly at the spray. “You are a giant child, sir,” The secretary hissed at him, “I will take care of all necessary arrangements. I do appreciate your visit, truly.”

  Karlos laughed, stood from the desk, and tossed the apple aside. Some servant would clean it, surely. Perhaps one of the serving girls who worked in the palace. Some of them were quite pretty, with skin darker even than his own Styranian complexion. He liked that. In his ideal world, he would stay in the subcontinent a long time, enjoying the fruits of the colonies. Drinking, fighting, and fucking who he liked. In that world, nobody would speak of his father’s disgrace ever again. He’d be free of it, free to do anything.

  “Your mother wanted to speak with you,” Charles said in parting as he stood from his chair and began to collect a stack of papers.

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  The man knew just how to put a damper on his mood. All Karlos could do in response was frown and grunt his acknowledgement. Then he turned and stalked from the room. He had been in such a lively mood before that. It always made him happy to make Charles miserable. He strode through the halls of the palace. The men of the Grenadier Guard stood watch at every door and intersection. With rebellion in the air, they would take no chance. He knew most of the men personally. He turned away from the wing that served as the royal chambers and towards the south wing of the palace, which faced the Guludan capital city, Mehnaban. That was where the nobility of the court had been housed, where his mother’s apartments lay. The king's retinue was massive. The raja had volunteered the use of his grand palace and was staying in one of his many lesser palaces nearby. Karlos was still learning the layout of the vast estate. He turned down a hallway, and as he realised it was not the correct one, he saw a few officers stroll from a doorway. They were all young infantrymen, his age, minor nobility, nothing that truly concerned him, though he recognised one of them from his days at the academy. The man wore the red and black of the grenadiers. His name was something pompous, and it started with the letter S, he thought.

  As the trio passed him, one whispered something, and the others laughed. He could not be sure what they said, but he was sure he heard his father’s name on their lips. He snapped suddenly. He rounded on the men, took the man by his shoulder and bodily turned him, then slapped his face.

  “What the bloody hell?” The man shot at him.

  “You will not disrespect my family,” He shot.

  “What?” One of the other lads said, “You let him go, you rotter.”

  Karlos shoved the man against the wall, then removed his glove and slapped the gentleman hard across the cheek with it. The sound silenced any further protests from the other officers.

  “I will have satisfaction,” Karlos growled.

  “You’re mad,” The officer said.

  “I may be,” He agreed, “But I will still have it.”

  “Do you know who I am?” The man blustered.

  He was beneath consideration, as far as Karlos Blackwater was concerned, “You ought to have known better than to insult my family.”

  “To what?” The man said, confused. It was clearly a ploy. Karlos was known as a fighter among the court. None dared insult him, lest he demand a duel.

  “Don’t bother denying it.”

  The man looked at him, clearly wanting to, but he swallowed his protestations and nodded, “I’ll fight you.”

  “What are your terms?” Karlos spat.

  “Pistols. Now.”

  He nodded. The man was wiser than he looked. Swords would have seen the man run through. Pistols were closer to an even bet. Karlos was still a masterful shot, but his sword was one of the handful of Styranian forged blades that still resided in the world, enchanted swords crafted from the shards of dead gods. They were famous, though few knew their true nature. They had a reputation for being deadly sharp and preternaturally quick. Karlos had inherited one from his mother’s side.

  “Who will second you?” Karlos demanded.

  “I will,” One of the other officers stepped forward. He was young, but he had a rakish affectation, with a swagger that made him seem older and more confident.

  “You are?” Karlos asked.

  “Lieutenant Percival Blakely,” The young man said.

  “Ahh, the son of the late governor,” Karlos recognised him as soon as he had named himself. He was recently arrived with the army that had returned from quelling Durzan, “Well, I’m sure you know who I am. Who is it that I have the honour of duelling today?”

  “Lieutenant Augustus Belfair,” The youthful officer shot at him.

  Karlos nearly cursed under his breath. Instead, he shot the man a confident smirk. He knew, though, that this was not a lad he could kill and see no consequence. The Belfair name carried a great weight. It was an old family with a great deal of power in the company. The head of the noble house, General Belfair, was famous for his survival and heroism during Karlos’s father’s disaster. No wonder the man had insulted him. The lad had to be punished for his disrespect. The Blackwater name would not be impugned.

  “Who will be your second?” The young Blakely demanded.

  Karlos was at a loss for a moment. There were plenty of men who would do it. Good, honourable gentlemen. There were none handy just now. How would it look if he had to wander around the palace searching for such a man?

  “I’ll have that honour, young Karlos,” A voice sounded from behind him. Edward of Gaunt, the king’s brother, stood there smiling at them. Karlos had not seen him arrive. He was older, though not quite old. He was perhaps a decade younger than the king. He was still fit for his age. He had a bright twinkle in his blue eyes and a short, well-trimmed beard.

  Edward walked up and clapped him on the shoulder, “Let us resolve this grievance between two young gentlemen, like, well, gentlemen. Pistols, you say? Very good. I have two fine pistols for just such an occasion. We will meet you on the green in, let us say, fifteen minutes.”

  The young officers nodded. The young Belfair glared defiantly at Karlos. He would wipe that look off the man’s face. A lead ball from a pistol would do the trick nicely.

  “With me, Karlos,” Edward said, putting a friendly arm around his shoulder. He turned the young man and began leading him away, “Let us go find my duelling pistols. I had the handles crafted of the finest mother-of-pearl. The barrels are set with beautiful filigree. I had them commissioned personally from a gunsmith in Strega. Marvellous work, honestly.”

  Karlos let himself be led away, “Thank you, my lord,” He said as they walked.

  “Think nothing of it. Now, what is the matter that requires violence? Apologies, but I had walked up late,” Edward asked.

  “He insulted my father.”

  “The great Lord Jakob Blackwater?” Edward asked, “You know it is a shame that men only remember him for Vurun. In his day, he won many battles for the king, and hard ones too. He was a loyal friend and servant of my brother and my father before that.”

  “Yet all they see is Vurun. I will not have his name impugned by lesser men and boys.”

  “Nor would I,” Edward said as they walked, “Is there no other way to resolve this? No apology that young Belfair could make? It is a sad day when the flower of nobility falls over a dispute such as this.”

  Karlos knew what Edward was doing. It was one of the main jobs of a second in a duel to prevent blood being spilt. He would not be swayed. Once Karlos had made up his mind, he would not be turned from the path. “No. You did not hear. He insulted my father.”

  “What did he say that was so terrible?”

  Karlos could not say for sure. He had only heard it in passing, yet he was sure they had said his father’s name, then they had all laughed. “I would not repeat the words.”

  Edward nodded sagely, “Surely no words exist that are worth the death of young men of such breeding, eh?”

  “I would make an example.”

  “Yet you cannot change the past, and you cannot change what they say about your father behind your back. Perhaps it is better if you show magnanimity. The Blackwater name can be restored. People will think better of you as a young man who shows restraint and good judgment.”

  “I am set upon this, sir,” Karlos said, and it was.

  They arrived at the door to Edward’s apartments. The king’s brother nodded to the guards who stood outside, slipped into his rooms, and then returned a moment later with a box that contained his duelling pistols.

  “You know I have had the occasion to use these twice,” Edward said, leading him down another Hall that led towards the gardens.

  “Against whom?” Karlos asked.

  “Once against Jo?o of Ortho, a distant cousin of yours, I believe, on your mother’s side,” He said, “This was before he had ascended the Styranian throne. We were drunk at a party, and he had seduced a woman I was trying to court at the time.”

  Karlos was unable to suppress a laugh, “You duelled the king of Styrania?”

  “He was fifth in line at the time. Regardless, we both missed, shot into the bushes, and proceeded to share the poor girl the rest of the night.”

  Karlos snorted, “Who was the other?”

  “The other man I duelled? That story is less interesting. I shot Lord Pennyworth through the thigh. He still walks with a cane to this day.”

  “What did he do to insult you?” Karlos asked.

  “You have it the wrong way ‘round. ’Twas I who insulted him. I had his wife while he was away at war. The poor man’s pistol misfired. I shot him in the leg rather than kill him because I felt poorly about cuckolding him.”

  Karlos nodded.

  “Surely this is not so bad as a dispute over a woman?” Edward asked as they strode out onto a secluded section of the lawn that was blocked by trees and hedges.

  “It’s worse, to me. Women come and go. My name is with me forever.”

  Edward nodded, “Very well. If you are set upon this, we will do it.”

  The two young lordlings, Belfair and Blakely, arrived soon after, just at the time they had said. Karlos and young Belfair stood apart, their seconds between them, glaring at one another while their pistols were loaded for them. Edward was right about his pistols. They gleamed with ornate gilt decoration and pearlescent grips. The guns that Belfair had brought were by no means shabby, but beside Edward’s, they looked common. Pistols were loaded and handed to the two duelists. Each of them had a pair of guns, one in each hand.

  “So we’re clear on the rules. You will each walk thirteen paces. Upon my command, you will turn and shoot. You have two shots each. You must fire them both. Live or die, this feuding ends here, and all is forgiven and forgotten, yes?”

  Both men looked at Edward and nodded.

  “Good. We’re all gentlemen here. I expect it to be an honourable affair.”

  They went to their positions. Karlos reached down, picked up a clod of dirt, and rubbed his hands with it. He began to feel his heart beat faster. Each duel he had fought, his heart had raced, not with fear, but with excitement, anticipation. It was as much the danger as the vengeance he wanted. His heartbeat quickened with each step Edward counted.

  “Five! Six! Seven!” Edward called out.

  His heart beat, his mouth went dry. He felt the smooth grip of the pistols in his hand. His eyes were fixed on a red rose bush at the edge of the grass, and he admired it.

  “Eight! Nine! Ten!”

  He felt the grass underfoot. The sun on his cheek. He licked his lips and breathed out slowly.

  “Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen!”

  He stopped and waited for the word. The silence stretched out. Birds chirped in the trees nearby. Time seemed to slow. The command would be soon. He gripped the pistols and put his fingers to the triggers.

  “Pardon me?” A woman's indignant voice sounded.

  “Hold,” Edward said.

  “What is all this about, then, Edward?” The voice sounded almost shrill. He recognised the voice.

  Karlos hazarded a glance. It was as he feared. The queen herself had found them. Queen Ella. His breath caught in his throat as he saw her. She was very lovely, even younger than he, with pale white skin, raven black hair, and lovely red lips. He had wanted to kiss her for a very long time, but he did not favour going to the hangman’s noose. She was the king’s wife, and no man touched her but he. Karlos often wondered if King Victus even touched her himself, old as he was. They had certainly had no children, though that had been the whole point of their marriage, to make an heir. It seemed a rather late time in the man’s life to be doing that with a lovely, youthful queen such as Ella. Karlos shot his best charming smile at her.

  “Your queen has asked you a question, Edward,” Ella demanded. Behind her stood a retinue of lovely young ladies-in-waiting. Karlos had bedded a few of those.

  “These gentlemen are engaged in a lawful duel, Majesty,” Edward explained, “It is a matter of personal honour.”

  “On the eve of war?” Ella demanded, incensed.

  “Matters of honour cannot wait, even in times such as these. The lads were quite set on it,” Edward tried to explain.

  “If it were up to me, Edward, this whole practice would be abolished. Young men killing each other, and over what, an insult, a slight? Put this business aside. Save your rancour for the mutineers. Your queen commands it.”

  “What of honour?” Edward complained.

  Karlos frowned. He wanted to duel.

  “If both of you foolish boys live out the war, and the practice is yet lawful, you both may take up arms against one another then,” She said, though she sounded like she did not mean it.

  “It is a lawful duel, majesty,” Edward said.

  “Not anymore. I forbid it,” The queen said, “And if you find some secret time and place to have this duel, and I hear of it, I shall have whoever survives hanged.”

  Edward sighed. The young officers Belfair and Blakely looked chastened. Karlos looked at the queen hotly, “Majesty…” He started.

  “Do not say another word,” The queen put up a finger. She was almost as bad as his mother. “My husband is leading the army to war. We leave in two days.”

  “We?” Edward turned on her, “You can’t mean to…”

  “We,” The queen said. It was a tone that Karlos knew well from serving her husband. It was a tone that meant her mind was set on a thing, and she would not be moved.