The story so far: Adon Santinetta and Crown Prince Lorens, accompanied by Princess Carena and Lord Bardonnel, make a state visit to Satele, where they soon encounter an anti-regime mob, a divided court, and an assassination attempt. During trade talks, Satelen Lord Marinacci makes a very unwelcome proposal, which Lorens rejects with prejudice. Upon hearing that a coup will be attempted soon, Adon and Lorens devise a plan to extricate the delegation. After the state dinner, as princesses Carena and Grania try to reach the latter’s suite, they are stopped by Satelen soldiers, but they fight their way to safety.
One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten
Glancing around the ballroom, Adon ignored the dessert plate in front of him and leaned back, taking a sip of his wine. Just above the hubbub of the noble diners’ voices and clinking dinnerware, he could hear soothing music coming from the orchestra in the balcony. To his right, Prince Lorens and King Mirando spoke seriously in voices low enough that Adon could not make out what they were saying. Lord Marinacci, sitting at the near end of the far table, also watched the royal conversation. When he noticed Adon’s stare, the Satelen lord, smirking, raised his glass in a mock toast. Adon did not react.
Marinacci’s gesture made him think about the princesses, reminding him he might have sent them into danger. It worried him that no Satelen guard had gone with Grania, leaving only Carena’s Marine guard to protect them until they reached the atrium, where Lieutenant Archeta and his squad lingered. It was not far, but Marinacci’s men could try to intercept them at a few points along the way. He had wanted to escort them personally, but Lorens’ safety is my priority, he reminded himself. He had to learn to trust his guards to do their jobs. Just like on a ship. A captain has to trust his crew.
Servers entered to clear the plates, followed by others refilling glasses. At the room’s far end, Adon noticed a troupe of some sort—acrobats by their dress, he thought—had gathered to begin the entertainment. In anticipation, the orchestra now played a livelier, more cheerful tune. Many of the guests around the ballroom were smiling, and a few had begun clapping to the music.
Movement drew his eyes toward Lord Marinacci, an underling stooping to whisper in the nobleman’s ear. A scowl flitted across the normally affable countenance, spurring a few sharp, hissed words. After a perfunctory bow, the soldier hastened away, signaling to a few others to follow him. Adon hastily looked away to ensure Marinacci would not know he had witnessed the incident. I hope the soldier brought news that the princesses got away.
Protocol dictated that he remain seated until the king dismissed him or rose himself, but the captain stood anyway. With his back to me, King Mirando will never notice my breach of etiquette. Adon gestured to his Marine guard to follow him, and they joined the two Marines assigned to Lorens and Petron across the room. Hands behind his back, he stood with them against the wall, eyes scanning the room.
The acrobatic troupe’s movements, now the sole activity in the massive room, kept attracting his attention. Dressed in tight-fitting, one-piece uniforms of bright blue, red, yellow, and green, the acrobats soon took starting positions in the ballroom’s center. As new music began, they tumbled and leaped in intricate patterns, rolling, somersaulting, and jumping under and over their fellows. A few threw white, air-filled bladders to one another as they cavorted around the space. Two women danced among the others, waving long, colorful streamers attached to the end of a rod.
A few minutes later, a pair of muscular acrobats began tossing a few of the slighter ones high into the air, eliciting gasps from the diners, and after they performed a spin, a flip, or a split in mid-air, another pair caught them as they fell several yards away. Along with a few squeals of dismay, they received an appreciative round of applause.
The music increased in tempo, and the acrobatics took on a frenzied pace, the performers seeming to move at double-time. One strongman ran forward with a large ring on a short pole, its circumference aflame. His fellows dove through the fire as the big man gradually raised it farther off the ground. The finale featured another big man hurling the smallest acrobat—to Adon, he looked like a child—through the fiery ring held high over the strongman’s head.
When he landed in front of the high table, directly before the king, several balloons popped at once, and a cloud of brightly colored powders exploded into the air. The music ended abruptly, and the crowd clapped eagerly, with a few individuals even standing and shouting out their admiration. The acrobats bowed and hurried from the room.
Only Prince Lorens noticed that, at the moment the balloons popped, the Satelen monarch had slumped onto the arm of his chair. Rising, the prince shook the king’s shoulder, saying, “King Mirando! Are you ill?” He received no response.
Adon joined him. “What’s happened?”
The prince dared not touch the king further. “I can’t be sure. He may have suffered a heart attack for all I can tell.” He leaned farther in front of the unconscious king, and his eye caught a detail he had missed: the end of a slender, fletched shaft. “A dart!” he whispered to Adon.
As the powdered air cleared, many among the lower tables turned their attention to Lorens, some with curiosity and others more skeptically. Near Lord Marinacci’s seat, a cry went up: “Treachery!”
Lorens faced the crowd, ignoring the accusation. His booming battlefield voice filled the ballroom. “Is there a physician among us? Your king needs help! He has been struck by a dart.”
Several women screamed, and at least one swooned. Many diners scrambled to leave. A few noblemen came forward to view the scene better, but none offered help. Uncertain Satelen guards, having received no orders and seeing no immediate threat, remained in their places along the wall.
A fresh-faced young man rushed around the table, declaring he was a medical student. Lorens stepped back, letting the student check for the king’s pulse on his neck and wrist. His face fell, and he shook his head. “The king is dead,” he said solemnly into the suddenly hushed room.
“Treachery!” This time, other voices echoed it loudly throughout the ballroom. The original voice shouted again, “The Margonni have killed the king!”
Adon summoned the Marines, and Petron came with them. They surrounded the prince, who had not reacted to the cries but hung his head at the medical student’s verdict. Several Satelen guards finally converged on the king. An officer, whom Adon recognized as one who often guarded Mirando, rushed into the room and soon verified the king’s passing. Noticing the dart embedded in the king’s chest, he caught the prince’s eye and said, “The opposition did this, Your Highness. Leave now!”
“It’s a good idea, Lorens,” Adon urged. “We can leave the same way Carena did.”
The prince nodded. “Let’s go! Keep your weapons sheathed, gentlemen. We don’t want to provoke a fight.”
With Adon leading, they filed through the servers’ door, shutting it behind them. The Marines turned right, but the captain called them back. “Grania said to exit through the wine cellar. There is a way out there.”
“Where is it?” Petron asked. “Do you know the way?”
“She said it’s below the kitchen,” Adon answered, “and the kitchen is through there.” He pointed to an open door a few yards to their left. “Follow me!”
Once through the door, their noses and ears led them to the kitchen, where the staff was busily talking, eating the banquet’s leftovers, or washing the dishes. As they entered, the kitchen went silent, and several servants bowed to the prince. One stood up from where he had been eating and beckoned them to accompany him. Recognizing Februsto, Adon whispered, “Grania’s spider,” to Lorens and Petron and bade the guards follow.
Februsto took them down a short hallway to a stairwell that doubled back under the kitchen. After opening a door at its foot, he led them into a large, well-lit space filled with stacked casks of all sizes and dozens of racks filled with bottles of wine. With a quick look around, Lorens spotted a pair of large wooden doors and made for them.
“No, my lord!” Februsto called in a hushed voice. “Not that way. I’m sure Marinacci’s men guard it outside. The princess asked me to show you another way, a secret way.”
“Where is it?” Adon asked.
Februsto was about to answer when the door to the stairway burst open, and a four-man squad of Satelen soldiers came through, swords drawn. Once in the cellar, they fanned out, menacing the Margonni guards but not attacking. Stepping back, the Marines’ hands went to their sword hilts, but they did not draw them.
Exiting the stairwell, a smirking Corado Marinacci sauntered in, donning a pair of black leather gloves. “I see we have driven the rabbit to ground! He shall not escape the wily fox!”
“Is that what you fancy yourself?” Lorens asked, an eyebrow raised. “Fair enough! You are wily! But I would suggest modifying your description of your prey to ‘badger.’ We are not without teeth and claws.”
The nobleman sniggered and clapped mockingly. “You are droll, Prince Lorens! A fine jest!” But then his face darkened, and his voice hardened. “But clever words won’t get you out of this! In a moment, more troops will arrive, and then we will make a fine scapegoat of you for the king’s recent demise.”
Hearing Marinacci’s threatening words, the captain drew his sword, and instantly, all his guards and Petron did the same. With a jerk of his head, he sent the trade minister to protect Februsto, who had backed as far from the soldiers as he could.
“Ah, I see!” Prince Lorens said, still not reaching for his sword. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest. “What a brilliant ploy! Kill the king with an assassin’s dart—which you paid for—then blame it on the outsiders! As the hero of Satele, and by popular acclaim, you take his vacant throne. Cunning—and evil!”
“It’s just the courtly game,” Marinacci said with a dismissive flip of his wrist, “and I happen to be very good at it. I expect it to reward me and my allies extravagantly.” He turned to his right and left, seeing his men in position. “Now, boys, rid me of them, but leave the prince for me.”
Each Satelen soldier immediately engaged the man in front of him. Backing away, Petron’s Marine guard stumbled over an imperfection in the rocky floor and nearly paid for it with his life. Only his shipboard brawling skills saved him, though the Satelen’s blade sliced a line across his shoulder. Sweeping the legs from under his attacker, the Marine’s cutlass found its mark as the man fell.
The prince’s guard faced a tall, athletic Satelen with obvious fencing expertise. He advanced toward his Margonnian opponent with confidence, testing his skills with precise, probing attacks, which the Marine countered with difficulty. Grinning as he realized his opponent lacked his skills, the Satelen pressed forward, toying with him. But, after being stabbed and slashed several times in his arms, shoulders, and legs, the Marine savagely parried the Satelen’s next strike with his heavy cutlass, throwing the man off balance and opening his side to a fatal thrust under his ribcage.
Adon’s guard, no expert swordsman, immediately locked blades with his Satelen opponent. Using his superior weight and strength, he bull-rushed the man into a nearby wine rack. As bottles fell and crashed against the stone floor, spilling their contents, he pulled a belt-knife with his left hand and thrust the short blade home. He released the body to mingle its blood with the wine at their feet.
The captain had the toughest time with his adversary. Letting the younger man go on the offensive, Adon knew his sword-fighting skills would eventually prove no match for the Satelen’s. He had sparred only a time or two since he had left his ship just weeks ago, and he suddenly realized how out of practice he was. Fortunately for him, his Marine applied a handy wine bottle to the young swordsman’s head, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead.
Thanking his savior between deep breaths, Adon sheathed his sword, knowing the prince would want no one to interfere in his confrontation with Lord Marinacci. He ordered the two fittest Marines to close and bar the stairway door, cutting off the Satelen nobleman’s escape or reinforcement. The bleeding Marine he sent to join Petron, who bound the man’s wounds as best he could with strips from his own shirt.
Lorens slowly drew his sword, letting the hiss of steel fill the cellar. “Well, Corado! Your wily plan did not work out as you expected, did it? As you see, my Marines are special soldiers. It’s deuced hard to kill them, especially when they refuse to fight fairly. Perhaps you would like to reconsider challenging their prince?”
“Your bravado doesn’t frighten me,” Marinacci answered, showing surprising, or perhaps foolhardy, confidence despite now being outnumbered six-to-one. “I have studied at Delphino’s finest fencing schools. I can hold my own against a pompous princeling.”
Frowning, Lorens shook his head. “Fine,” he sighed, stepping back into a middle-guard position. Then, he straightened abruptly, asking, “Have you ever fought in earnest, say, in battle?”
“No,” the Satelen lord grunted, scowling.
“A shame,” the prince said. “It makes a difference.” Returning to his defensive stance, he waved the nobleman forward. “Proceed.”
The combatants’ swords met briefly once, twice, thrice, as Marinacci tested Lorens’ skills. The prince defended with seemingly relaxed ease and minimal effort, moving his sword to counter each stroke and nothing more. An observer might think him bored or uninterested in dueling. Irritated, the Satelen sought to rouse the prince with a complex attack, but Lorens met every strike with a precise parry. In less than a minute, Marinacci realized that Margonne’s Crown Prince had mastered the sword, and that he had grievously misplayed his endgame. His eyes darted toward possible exits but found none.
Seeing the Satelen lord’s sudden terror, Lorens smiled sadly. “Ah! The truth dawns on you, eh, Corado? Your arrogance and ambition have carried you to this moment, but now they cannot save you. Consider me Princess Grania’s avenging champion.” With these words, his sword seemed to blur in his hand as he penetrated Marinacci’s guard with two swift strokes and plunged his sword between the pretender’s ribs just to the left of his breastbone, where the assassin’s dart had taken his king’s life. Silently, astonished, Lord Corado Marinacci fell to his knees and died.
Lorens’ steely blue eyes found Adon’s. “We’re done here, Uncle. Where is this hidden passage?”
A note:
Lorens may have been the most talented of a long line of expert swordsmen among the kings and princes of Margonne. He was at least as skilled as his great-uncle, Prince Lirens, brother of King Alfons, and likely better even than Margonne himself, who leaned heavily on his superior strength rather than on precision. All of them followed Nestor Andromedes' Sword-Fighting Forms, practicing them religiously every day of their active lives. The Ankaras thought it their sacred duty to be fit and ready to defend their kingdom, leading their armies into battle and endangering their own lives to secure the peace for their subjects. On this occasion, Lorens extended that protection to Satelen Princess Grania, whom he admired for her steady grace and courage in a hostile court.
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A fitting end. Some mistakes you just can't come back from.
Most excellent! And quite exciting. I love how calmly Lorens met his opponent.