Play of Shadows (Court of Shadows, 1) by Sebastien de Castell

Author:Sebastien de Castell [Castell, Sebastien de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2024-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

The Gates

Two pairs of iron gates separated the Ducal Palace of Jereste from the city. The first were set in a colossal arch of blue-enamelled brick, the top of which served as a guard house for the sentries, who could gaze down through strategically placed arrow slits at those who came begging entry into the massive courtyard where Jereste’s civic festivals were held. Courteous even at such a late hour, the sentries were perfectly willing – after a brief recitation of the legal penalties for seeking entry under false pretences – to open the gate to those asserting vital business with the duke.

The second gate was where our real problems began.

‘Our hosts don’t look pleased by our arrival,’ Rhyleis observed, glancing behind her at the heavy bars now imprisoning the three of us inside the courtyard. We’d been instructed to wait there until the guards at the second gates returned to either wave us inside or escort us to the beheading blocks beneath the massive statues of Death and Coin.

‘D’you suppose that line you wrote about “withered ducal sceptres left flaccid by spectres” might have been a bit . . . ungenerous?’ Beretto asked.

I agreed, although I’d lacked the courage to say anything myself, just handed the folded sheet of paper to the bleary-eyed chamberlain with instructions to put it into the hands of Duke Monsegino himself and no other. That was more than an hour ago, and I was starting to wonder if perhaps we’d pushed our luck too far.

Rhyleis shrugged. ‘Everyone’s a critic these— Oh, Hells.’

A dozen guards in pertine-blue tabards over hastily donned armour, spears in hand and crossbows strapped to their backs, were marching loudly down the passage towards the gate. They looked entirely displeased with us.

‘It’s all right,’ I told the others. ‘Unhappy guards is a good sign.’

My grandfather used to say that if a Greatcoat ever met a soldier who wasn’t grinning at the prospect of beheading him, he’d know he’d left Tristian soil.

A large woman with short-cropped blonde hair was leading the troop. She was almost as big as Pink Mol, with a grimace twice as unfriendly. The moment she reached the gate, she stopped and held up a fist. The twelve soldiers behind her clanked to an immediate halt.

‘I am Captain Terine of the palace guard,’ she said bluntly.

‘Terine?’ Beretto asked. ‘Did your parents mean to name you after a meal of slow-cooked vegetables and meat, or after the silver bowl into which said repast is placed to cool?’

‘Not helping,’ I said.

‘I’m hungry. We never had supper.’

‘When I give the signal,’ Captain Terine began, ignoring our exchange, ‘the gate will rise. You will walk six paces forward and wait there as my soldiers take up position beside and behind you.’

And that way we’ll be neatly boxed in on all sides. I glanced back at the first gate, wondering if we might be fast enough to race across the courtyard and climb over before we were impaled by crossbow bolts.

‘Should you attempt to flee, you will be executed on the spot,’ Captain Terine informed us, catching my eye.

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