Best Served Cold

G eneral Ganmark’s highly polished cavalry boots click-clicked against the highly polished floor. The chamberlain’s shoes squeak-squeaked along behind. The echoes of both snap-snapped from the glittering walls and around the great, hollow space, their hurry setting lazy dust motes swirling through bars of light. Shenkt’s own soft work boots, scuffed and supple from long use, made no sound whatsoever.

“Upon entering the presence of his Excellency,” the chamberlain’s words frothed busily out, “you advance towards him, without undue speed, looking neither right nor left, your eyes tilted down towards the ground and at no point meeting those of his Excellency. You stop at the white line upon the carpet. Not before the line and under no circumstances beyond it but precisely at the line. You then kneel-”

“I do not kneel,” said Shenkt.

The chamberlain’s head rotated towards him like an affronted owl’s. “Only the heads of state of foreign powers are excepted! Everyone must-”

“I do not kneel.”

The chamberlain gasped with outrage, but Ganmark snapped over him. “For pity’s sake! Duke Orso’s son and heir has been murdered! His Excellency does not give a damn whether a man kneels if he can bring him vengeance. Kneel or not, as it suits you.” Two white-liveried guardsmen lifted their crossed halberds to let them pass, and Ganmark shoved the double doors wide open.

The hall beyond was dauntingly cavernous, opulent, grand. Fit for the throne room of the most powerful man in Styria. But Shenkt had stood in greater rooms, before greater men, and had no awe left in him. A thin red carpet stretched away down the mosaic floor, a white line at its lonely end. A high dais rose beyond it, a dozen men in full armour standing guard in front. Upon the dais was a golden chair. Within the chair was Grand Duke Orso of Talins. He was dressed all in black, but his frown was blacker yet.

A strange and sinister selection of people, three score or more, of all races, sizes and shapes, knelt before Orso and his retinue in a wide arc. They carried no weapons now, but Shenkt guessed they usually carried many. He knew some few of them by sight. Killers. Assassins. Hunters of men. Persons in his profession, if the whitewasher could be said to be in the same profession as the master painter.

He advanced towards the dais, without undue speed, looking neither right nor left. He passed through the half-circle of assorted murderers and stopped precisely at the line. He watched General Ganmark stride past the guards and up the steps to the throne, lean to whisper in Orso’s ear while the chamberlain took up a disapproving pose at his other elbow.

The grand duke stared at Shenkt for a long moment and Shenkt stared back, the hall cloaked all the while in that oppressive silence that only great spaces can produce. “So this is he. Why is he not kneeling?”

“He does not kneel, apparently,” said Ganmark.

“Everyone else kneels. What makes you special?”

“Nothing,” said Shenkt.

“But you do not kneel.”

“I used to. Long ago. No more.”

Orso’s eyes narrowed. “And what if a man tried to make you?”

“Some have tried.”

“And?”

“And I do not kneel.”

“Stand, then. My son is dead.”

“You have my sorrow.”

“You do not sound sorrowful.”

“He was not my son.”

The chamberlain nearly choked on his tongue, but Orso’s sunken eyes did not deviate. “You like to speak the truth, I see. Blunt counsel is a valuable thing to powerful men. You come to me with the highest recommendations.”

Shenkt said nothing.

“That business in Keln. I understand that was your work. All of that, your work alone. It is said that the things that were left could hardly be called corpses.”

Shenkt said nothing.

“You do not confirm it.”

Shenkt stared into Duke Orso’s face, and said nothing.

“You do not deny it, though.”

More nothing.

“I like a tight-lipped man. A man who says little to his friends will say less than nothing to his enemies.”

Silence.

“My son is murdered. Thrown from the window of a brothel like rubbish. Many of his friends and associates, my citizens, were also killed. My son-in-law, his Majesty the King of the Union, no less, only just escaped the burning building with his life. Sotorius, the half-corpse Chancellor of Sipani who was their host, wrings his hands and tells me he can do nothing. I am betrayed. I am bereaved. I am… embarrassed. Me!” he screamed suddenly, making the chamber ring, and every person in it flinch.

Every person except Shenkt. “Vengeance, then.”

“Vengeance!” Orso smashed the arm of his chair with his fist. “Swift and terrible.”

“Swift I cannot promise. Terrible-yes.”

“Then let it be slow, and grinding, and merciless.”

“It may be necessary to cause some harm to your subjects and their property.”

“Whatever it takes. Bring me their heads. Every man, woman or child involved in this, to the slightest degree. Whatever is necessary. Bring me their heads.”

“Their heads, then.”

“What will be your advance?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even-”