The Madness of Valatriste

Chapter 1

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The small, scaly creatures could only be found in the spring and summer, when the ring-shadows drifted northward, taking the twilight haze of winter with them. But in Morghe, at the mouth of the Frissium Bay, one could always find a small dragon, and his name was Tiberre.

Fulsien drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Strength and confidence. Negotiating with dragons was always a delicate thing.

The dragon crest of Tiberre Merecorde, duke of Morghe, hung in colorful splendor above the doorway of the tavern—a black-beamed, sprawling white tavern that clung to the Eastern bank of the Morgydes Estuary. An oiled-wood sign, mounted beside the crest, bore a luxuriously carved script with the name of the establishment: The Treasurer’s Arms. But everyone in Morghe knew the real name. It was Tiberre’s Tavern, and only those invited could pass through its doors.

Fulsien Valatriste had been invited today, and he had brought his gallant, Lucide Vertagn, with him. Both wore thick woolen traveling cloaks, elegantly cut, but which bore no sigils or identifying marks. Each man wore a plain white mask under his hood. They were undesignated Primes, distinguished nobodies in Morghe’s Gold Sector.

The city lay sprawled at the foot of a long, stony shelf that ran for a few miles along the Morgydes River. Most of Tiberre’s home, Palaise Morgis, lay inside that ridge, carved into the very stones, with an enormous gate set into the pale face of the shelf. Fulsien looked into the distance, toward the palace, where two massive dark towers rose before the gate, and thought again of the castle at Valatriste, fifty miles up the Morgydes river. Paleis Temfedie. Fulsien was second in line to the recently vacated dukedom of Valatriste, but, if everything went as it should, Temfedie would be his within two weeks.

Lucide stared at the Duke’s crest on the wall and stumbled through the High Merivien motto beneath the shield. “‘Noes-me Tas Ghe Seroit?’” He looked at Fulsien and squinted. “I was never good with the high tongue. What does it mean? ‘Do I have it well?’”

Fulsien glanced at the motto and shook his head. “‘Do I not have the right?’” The words had been added to Tiberre’s crest ten years back, when he had served as treasurer for King Lael. “And yes, he can do pretty much anything he pleases.”

Lucide touched the sidesword hilt on his hip and grinned. “My family motto is better. ‘Steel of the finest mettle.’”

“No,” Fulsien replied. “It’s not. Come, we’re late.”

A sentry wearing an elaborately carved burgeonet helm bowed to them. Fulsien held out his hand so the man could see the signet ring he wore. The guard nodded and tugged at an iron ring. The door swung open with the faintest of creaks.

Another sentry led them along a narrow gallery that smelled of dry, ancient wood and the buried scent of smoke from countless hearth fires. They filed past a half dozen suits of ceremonial armor and through a door, into the primary dining hall. It was an enormous chamber, decorated with coats of arms from the great noble families of Morghe. Bondrier, Ethenaise, Hueler, Donatienne and a dozen others.

Two tables sat in the chamber. One, long and draped in the crimson and gold of the Merecorde family, rested on a raised dais at the far end. The duke sat at this table, facing them upon the only chair that had been set. His eyes met Fulsien’s for an instant, then he cracked a crab leg between his fingers and handed it to a man standing beside him. The man, dressed in a simple tunic of red, cut a slice from the meat of the crab and slipped it into his mouth, nodded. Tiberre took the leg back and sucked the meat from the shattered shell.

A third sentry, posted at the doorway, announced the visitors to the duke. “Lord Fulsien Valatriste te Dandalaria, and his guest.”

Tiberre nodded to the two men and spat something to the ground beside him. He wiped at his mouth with a silk sleeve and shoved his plate forward. “You’re late.”

Fulsien and Lucide removed their masks.

“Preparations are under way at Temfedie, your grace,” Fulsien replied. “Duke Aimerre left the palace in a state when he died and we’ve had men trying to bring it back to the cut. A thousand decisions to be made. Apologies for the tardiness.”

The duke swept up a silver goblet from the table and drank from it. He wiped at his chin, again with his sleeve, and set the goblet down. Motioned to the second table in the room. A much smaller one of carved oak, placed at the foot of the dias. Facing them, with his back to the duke, was a lanky man dressed entirely in black. He wore a trimmed mustache and the barest tuft of raven hair beneath his lower lip. The man’s legs were stretched out to one side of the table. A sidesword dangled at his hip, the sheath bound to his swordbelt with short chains.

Fuslien and Lucide took seats opposite the man, who wiped at a dagger blade with red sanding cloth and scarcely took notice of them.

The duke shoved his chair backward and rubbed at his greasy hands. “Do you understand what it means when I say to be here precisely at noon?”

“Yes, your grace, I do,” Fulsien replied.

“I don’t think you do, Fulsien. I don’t think you understand at all.”

Fulsien dipped his head in a bow. “I can only apologize again, your grace.”

Tiberre stared long enough to make Fulsien shift in the chair.

“Is our problem sorted?” the duke asked.

“It will be, very soon.”

“How many men did you send?” Tiberre asked.

“Ten fusiliers. All dressed in plain woolen cloaks and leather haubergeons. They’ll take his cavalcade just south of Moncabrier.”

Tiberre chuckled. “Fulsien’s fusiliers.” he drank again and set the empty goblet down. “Send eight more.”

“Eighteen fusiliers? We have an informant among Elicien’s men. The cavalcade has only a half dozen knights. Ten fusiliers should be more than enough for an ambush. It is my problem, Lord Tiberre. It will be cared for.”

“Send eight more,” Tiberre said, and there was steel in his voice. “Have them take the cavalcade in the hills west of Vermanche, not south of Moncabrier. The hills there are a better location for an ambush.” He waved a hand indicating the matter was settled. “Now, when will you have the rest of my silver?”

Fulsien glanced at Lucide. “More time is needed, your grace.”

“It seems you can do nothing on time.”

“The treasury was compromised. Aimerre was reckless, and someone stole a great deal from the vault after he died.”

Tiberre ran a finger across the fabric-wrapped table top. “Tell me, Lord Fulsien, who is next in line after you? To be Duke of Valatriste?”

Viscobravo’s sanding cloth scraped against the dagger blade. Fulsien stared at the duke for a long time before giving him the answer they both knew. “Chresten Marchessane is next in line.”

Tiberre touched his palms together. “I wonder if Chresten Marchessane would put more importance on my time. Is Chresten punctual, Lord Fulsien?”

Fulsien didn’t reply. Lucide glanced at his master, then answered the duke. “Chresten has no sense of time, your grace. He’ll be late to his own funeral pyre, that one.”

Tiberre’s gaze shifted to Fulsien’s companion, a slow, clockwork-motion of the neck. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

Lucide stood and bowed with a flourish. “I am Sieur Lucide Verilien.”

“He is my champion,” Fulsien added. “And my friend.”

“A servant and friend?” Tiberre replied. “Is he a skilled gallant?”

“Fourteen duels, my lord,” Lucide sat down again and flashed a grin. “No losses. One draw.”

Tiberre nodded and gestured to the man cleaning his dagger. “My champion is a good gallant as well. Are you familiar with Norco Viscobravo? Forty-two duels. No losses. No draws.”

Lucide’s smile vanished. Everyone knew Viscobravo. The duelist had built his reputation in the southern kingdom of Leoncio before being lured to Briannte by Lord Tiberre. He nodded to the duke’s champion, who scrubbed at the dagger without looking up.

Tiberre rubbed a thumb into his palm and looked to Fulsien. “You would like to be duke? I will share with you three rules that you will find invaluable.”

Fulsien said nothing. He kept his gaze on the duke.

Tiberre raised a bottle into the air, presented it to Fulsien, then refilled his goblet. “First: Pour your own wine.” He drank from the goblet, set it down. “Second: Destroy anything or anyone that threatens your wealth.” He set the goblet down. “And third: Make certain that your people fear you more than they hate you.”

Fulsien folded his arms, but still said nothing.

“You do not agree?” Tiberre asked. “Come, Fulsien. Be reasonable. It is impossible to make everyone love you. But to make everyone fear you? Now that is something manageable.”

“Fear can be a poor motivator,” Fulsien replied.

Tiberre rose from his chair and walked around the table. He was a full head shorter than Fulsien, who was only slightly taller than average. But the blaze in the duke’s eyes added inches to his height. “Do you think you know more of motivation than I do?”

“No... no, not at all, your grace.”

“The only reason you will be duke is because I am allowing it. I have more gold in my foyer than you will ever have in your treasury. My army is twice the size of the one in Valatriste.” He gestured to the tall man sitting across from Fulsien. “I have the greatest swordsman that ever lived as my champion. And you? You have a scrapper from Ferreign.” He laid a hand on Viscobravo’s shoulder. “I have another lesson for you.”

Fulsien held up a hand. “I will have the silver to you in one—”

“A lesson!” Tiberre’s shout rang from the walls. “Viscobravo, Lord Fulsien has insulted me.”

The slender champion stood with a dancer’s grace and drew his sidesword, a motion fluid as a shark banking in the sea.

Lucide rose and grabbed at the hilt of his sword, but Fulsien stayed him with a hand.

“I understand the lesson, your grace. We have many other things to discuss. Can we move forward?”

Viscobravo took a measured step forward. Lucide’s hand tightened on the grip of his sword.

“I do not think you do understand the lesson,” Tiberre said. “But you must. You must understand, Fulsien. Do you see Sieur Lucide? He fears my champion, as any man would. See how his pupils expand? See the perspiration on his temples—it was not there a moment ago, and now it is. See how his shoulder is turned, ever so slightly, toward the door? You must become a student of fear if you wish to rule, Fulsien. You must see all these things.”

Viscobravo took another step forward, sword held lightly in one hand, the polished dagger in the other. No motion was wasted. Every movement controlled, like a leopard at hunt.

Lucide drew his sword slowly and took his stance.

Fulsien sighed and rose to his feet. “Must we continue this, your grace? Let us move on, please. I assure you I understand. I understand!”

“I am the Duke of Morghe!” Tiberre’s shout rang across the empty chamber. “I decide when we move on!”

Viscobravo extended his arm playfully, the tip of his blade touched Lucide’s sword with a clink that rang lightly. Fulsien’s gallant withdrew one step, looped his blade to the opposite side of Viscobravo’s.

“Lucide, put away your sword,” Fulsien said. “We are leaving. Do you hear me? Sheathe your weapon.”

Viscobravo extended his blade and lunged—water sweeping through a valley. Lucide retreated a step. Slapped at the extended blade with a sharp clink and sent a flashing riposte back at Viscobravo. Tiberre’s gallant caught the extended blade with downward stroke of his dagger, the blades clashing loudly. He advanced. His sword swept forward, red from a reflected banner.

Sieur Lucide retreated swiftly. Drew his dagger and slapped at Viscobravo’s blade. But the blade shifted and threatened again. Lucide retreated once more. An instant later, the tip of Viscobravo’s sword was at his belly. Fulsien never saw how it happened. A whitewater flash of steel, and victory was Viscobravo’s.

Lucide extended his arms out to the sides. “I yield.”

"A hair late on that parry, Lucide." Tiberre smiled at Fulsien. “You see? your gallant feared Viscobravo. And so he never had a chance. That is how fear works, Fulsien. It tunnels beneath the greatest of fortresses, and takes down the walls without a single cannon volley.” He nodded to his champion, who backed away a step.

“Thank you for your lesson,” Fulsien said, an edge to his voice. “I understand. Can we speak of your support now?”

Tiberre nodded.

“This doesn’t count against my record,” Lucide called. “It wasn’t a real—”

Viscobravo roared a strike cry and lunged again. His blade drove through Lucide's tunic and burst out from his back in froth of blood. Lucide’s mouth opened in a shriek that never emerged, his back arched, the sidesword dropped to the wooden floorboards with a clatter.

Fulsien howled, an unintelligible sound. Perhaps fury or horror or sorrow. He turned to Lord Tiberre and roared again.

“Now watch!” Tiberre ran forward waving his fingers to direct Fulsien's attention back to Lucide. “Watch this part closely! Watch! Watch! Do you see the fear on his face now? In his eyes? Do you see it?”

Viscobravo withdrew his sword. Lucide drew a wheezing breath, fell to his knees. His face was ashen, sweat made glass of his cheeks.

“Now you have seen terror.” Tiberre said. “Now you are a student of fear.” The duke kicked Lucide’s body so that the champion fell, sprawling to the floor, blood washing through the channels of the wooden boards beneath him. Tiberre met Fulsien’s wild stare and smiled. “Now,” he said, “you understand.”