Novel 2. Royal Justice

After handing the horse to the groom, Armando crossed the stone archway, guarded by a pair of soldiers, and found himself in the Hall, the fiefdom of the guards of law. Once, the royal bailiffs were merely petty officials sent out of the capital to pass a royal court order, to see that it was enforced by the local authorities. However, a century ago, they were separated into a special institution, closely related to both the city guard and the personal protection of the monarch. Since then, the bailiffs have acquired not only new rights and responsibilities, but also something like their own headquarters.

— Good morning, Dons and Donnas. What do we have today? — de Gorazzo said hello with feigned cheerfulness. The answer was silence — the main hall was empty. Chairs were pulled up to the round table in the center of the room, and the many doors leading from the hall to the bailiffs' offices were closed. Armando walked along the wall, trying the door handles. The first four offices were locked; only the fifth sash yielded. The mistress of the office, a charming redheaded girl of about twenty-three, was sitting at a massive oak desk and writing something intently on a tiny scrap of paper. Four prepared notes lay in a row in front of her. As de Gorazzo crossed the threshold, a dead pigeon flew in through the open window behind the girl — as the bailiff noted with indignation, far less shabby and smelly than the sparrow that had visited him. It sat on the back of the chair and froze, looking like a poorly made stuffed animal. The girl deftly rolled one note up into a tube, slipped it into the bird's beak, and with a wave of her hand sent it away. The forensic necromancer loved her feathered pets, but it never even occurred to her to keep them in her office — no perfume would have saved the scent.

— Good morning, Donna Vittoria! You are, as always, particularly beautiful in the morning! — Armando exclaimed, without the slightest hesitation. The necromancer had a slender figure, a beautiful doll face, fair skin, and huge green eyes. Her blue dress, her long red braids thrown over her chest, and her gold-rimmed round glasses suited her very well. In the rays of the dawning sun the girl seemed to glow lightly. — You wanted to see me? Me, specifically?

— Armando... — The necromancer glanced sullenly at the bailiff from beneath her shifting eyebrows and snapped her fingers. Two dead sparrows flew in through the window and whirled silently over the girl's head.

— I... meant nothing by it! — De Gorazzo swallowed, retreating a step back. His eyes were fixed on the sparrows. If a single bird had flitted in his direction, the bailiff would not have been ashamed to dash away. — I remember it's over between us! I... I mean, I was promised a free day today, why the call?

— Ah, that. — Donna Vittoria smiled and gestured for Armando to sit down. The sparrows remained circling under the ceiling. Their wings rustled through the air. — Have you heard what's going on in the city?

— The "blacks" and "greens" are escalating again? — The bailiff guessed, sinking into a cushioned chair. — More street fights?

— I wish. — The necromancer sighed, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her finger. — Two companies had taken up swords right on the steps of St. Andrew's Cathedral. Two dead, six wounded.

Armando whistled. The girl nodded:

— Yep. Can you imagine — the Divine Mediator comes out on the balcony in the morning, blessing the townspeople, and the guards on the steps of his residence are cleaning up the corpses. The Holy Father almost had a heart attack. Witnesses say that right there he began to read aloud excommunication. To whom — we never knew, because some cardinal ran out onto the balcony and took the old man inside by the hand.

— I wouldn't be surprised if he was going to excommunicate everyone at once, — de Gorazzo snorted. — This feud has long vexed the Holy Father. He's a good man, even too good. He wants everyone to be friends with everyone...

— Anyway, reported to the queen, the queen summoned the count, — continued the necromancer. By Count, she meant Don de Gorino, head bailiff. — The count returned, soaping everyone's necks. The Queen had gone to the Mediator in person an hour ago to ask forgiveness, and de Gorino had put all the bailiffs under battle banners. From this morning, ten men are to patrol the city along with squads of guards and stop skirmishes. Day and night. Three shifts, thirty men, only five in reserve, not counting me.

— Patrol the city? Us? Like a bunch of soldiers? — Armando was indignant.

— You know the guards are afraid of interfering between nobles, even after duels have been forbidden, — the redheaded donna shrugged her frail shoulders. — They'd sooner report a fight and remove the dead than interfere. With bailiffs, they might be bolder. It's always easier when there's someone to blame. Anyway, your shift's after noon and till 6:00 p.m. Pack up, go to the garrison barracks, they'll put you on patrol.

— Yeah... — Armando sighed heavily and suddenly slipped his hand into his pocket. With a showy gesture he took out a dried, unopened bud of a scarlet rose. — Don't get any ideas... here... just as an apology.

De Gorazzo was squinting frightened at the dead sparrows as he held out the rosebud. The spectacle worked — the necromancer drove the birds out the window with a wave of her hand, and took the rose carefully. She twirled it in her palm, peering through the lenses of her glasses, smiling childishly. She touched the flower with her fingertips, whispered something under her nose, squinted, and the dry bud bloomed. The dead rose opened with a faint rustling sound, not losing a single petal.

— You bastard, — the girl said in a half-whisper.

— I...

— Shut up. — The necromancer rose gracefully from her chair, stepped to the wall rack, placed the bud on one of the shelves. She took a blue peaked hat with brim, fashionable among the university mages, from a hook, put it on, and threw a short cloak with gold buckles over her shoulders. — My eyes are already sore from the fine handwriting, so I'll break for half an hour. I can walk you to the square.

— I...

— Just walk you to the square.

— Of course, Donna. It would be my pleasure. — Now Armando didn't know whether he was being sincere or brazenly lying...

* * *

Even a newcomer to the capital could easily tell that something was wrong with the city. It was enough to meet a patrol of city guards and notice that the soldiers look most closely not at all the poor ragamuffins and types of bandit appearance, but at well-dressed people. Especially those with spurs on their boots and swords on their bandages. The guards were also armed with short spears instead of the usual wooden clubs.

This state of affairs had persisted for nearly a year. A year ago, the last king of the Iderling dynasty, Octavian the Third, was murdered in his hunting castle by poisonous fumes. With him suffocated almost all the members of the royal family and their cronies. The corpses were rumored to have been carted out of the castle — poisonous smoke filled all its halls and corridors, not even sparing the basement rats. Only the middle daughter, who had not gone with her father, survived. But she, too, was killed that same day by a bullet fired from an unknown weapon. Neither the shooter nor the poisoner could be found, and they were not particularly sought. The cause of the monarch's death worried the nobility and officials far less than the question of who would now accept the crown. The hastily convened High Council sent a messenger to fetch Auguste the Strong, the ruler of one of the seven free duchies of the Coalition. By all appearances, the Grand Duke of Veronne was next in line for the throne, as the king's maternal kinsman. Auguste immediately left his fiefdom... but he was still too late. Before him, a small cortege led by the elven prince Elunas, also a member of the Coalition, a couple of elderly knights from the guards of the previous king, and an unknown girl in black and gold armor entered Dert. The girl, very young, was good-looking, slender, black-haired, blue-eyed, and riding with the confidence of an experienced cavalryman.

As she rode through the streets of Daert with her helmet in her lap, she looked around not without curiosity, but not as a provincial girl seeing the big city for the first time, but as a general arriving at the fortress he was to defend.

At the gates of the royal palace the procession was met by the Archimage and the Divine Mediator. In front of the assembled crowd they announced publicly that the girl in black armor — the fourth daughter of King Octavian, who lived separately from the family, and therefore the rightful heir to the throne. The elven prince confirmed the words of the magician and the head of the church, and the old guardsmen opened the wax-sealed scrolls where the princess's identity had been authenticated in writing by the king himself. The event caused a veritable uproar. Both the nobility and the common people, stunned by the news, immediately split into two camps — some welcomed the daughter of Octavian the Third, while others branded her an impostor, despite her obvious resemblance to the king.

There were more of the first. The princess was hastily crowned as Octavia the Ninth — almost there, under the arch of the palace gates. And the next day the Duke Auguste de Veronne arrived in the capital with a huge retinue and an army. Many Dertians were seriously expecting a street fight — if the Duke and his soldiers had rushed into the palace, who knows how many defenders the young queen would have had. The duke, however, was clearly upset by the sight of the occupied throne. He hesitated to camp beneath the old city wall. Meanwhile, regular troops had arrived in Dert — and the unrest had somehow abated of its own accord. One by one, the royal marshals swore their oaths to Octavia.

This is how the present strange situation came about. Auguste de Veronne did not leave, only disbanded most of his troops and retinue. Instead, his political allies from various parts of the kingdom and the Coalition began to flock to the hotel where the grand duke was staying. Around the royal palace, de Veronne's opponents, too, gathered. Two unspoken parties were formed, popularly nicknamed "black" and "green'. By the color of the queen's armor and the duke's coat of arms, respectively. "The Black" outnumbered their rivals, but they were united not so much by their loyalty to the queen as by their reluctance to see Auguste the Strong on the throne. Many members of the party had a grudge against one another. Influential and high-ranking officials at court wove intrigues to drag their enemies to court, and young supporters of both factions clinked their swords in taverns and in the streets of the city. Every now and then blood poured onto the ancient white cobblestones.

During the year, Octavia the Ninth, despite her youth, proved herself to be excellent ruler. Where necessary, the queen listened to her advisers, where necessary, she insisted on her own. It was evident that the princess was not brought up a politician, but a simple old knight, for in military matters she knew best. But the girl was a quick study. She was often seen in the city. In between paperwork and receiving ambassadors, the queen visited army regiments, visited temples, and attended courts, where she often commuted sentences. Through her efforts, none of the proceedings brought by the dignitaries ended in scandal — she always managed to find a compromise. And once a month, the black-haired beauty in black armor and gold crown even went out of town, where she received petitions directly from the hands of the peasants and townspeople. The latter attracted the sympathy of commoners and petty nobles alike — but the supporters of the higher nobility wrinkled their noses.

— Many have seen the queen with their own eyes. But I saw her up close, sergeant! — Don Armando told the patrol commander walking beside him. — You know that bailiffs swear an oath personally to the ruler, don't you?

— Mm-hmm, — said the commander, growing weary of the chatter his companion had imposed on him.

— The queen received us one by one in the throne room. The bailiff dropped to his knees and held this thing out to her. — Armando patted his palm on iron rod, suspended at his hip. — She'd take the rod, and then she'd give it back after hearing the oath. It was the same with me. I even touched her fingers!

— Did you? — the commander, not really listening to the bailiff, said. His attention was occupied by a bearded man in a green scarf. However, he was alone and unarmed, so the guard only looked at the bearded man.

— Well, she was in her armor, as usual. So I touched her gloves, rather. — De Gorazzo confessed. — But I'll tell you what, sergeant. I have seen many beautiful women. But this is the first time I've ever met a beautiful girl who looks so good in full armor. Of course, when they fit well, and you can even appreciate the girl's waist...

— Your nobility, look. On the white side, — the guard interrupted him, pointing forward with his spear.

This was the sixth time the patrol had crossed the Split Square. Once it had been divided in two by a river, but under recent emperors the riverbed had been set in stone. Now the only reminders of those times were tiles — half the square was paved with gray stone, the other half with white. The wavy junction of the two halves repeated the curves of the river, which had gone under the stone. On the white side of the square a company of young men had been hanging around for an hour, waiting. All the young men were dressed in nobleman's clothing, all with newfangled rapiers or family swords. All had something green in their closet — a kerchief, a camisole, a feather in their hat. Ordinary townspeople diligently circled the company in a wide arc.

Whatever the youngsters were waiting for, they got what they were waiting for when a roughly equal number of the same youngsters, only with black scarves and feathers, emerged from the alley beside them. Seeing each other, the two companies immediately perked up. One reached out to the other like a magnet and iron. But the casual passers-by, on the contrary, hurried away, foreboding a mess.

— Okay, let's go that way, — Armando decided.

— Wouldn't we better wait, your nobility?

— No, sergeant. Too close to the center. What if other patrols rush in, see us standing around, doing nothing? It's gonna get messy. Better hurry up.

If Armando were alone, he would have politely asked the bullies to leave the square for some dark alley. He would have hinted that for a penny or two he was ready to provide them with a quiet environment for a noble duel. But now there were eight soldiers escorting the bailiff — it's easier to act legally than to shut them up and share the bounty.