Novel 2. Royal Justice

                                                Part One.  Tipstaffs

                                                      Chapter 1

The sight of heavily laden carts rolling down the night road in the moonlight was quite unusual. The trade routes of the kingdom always came to a standstill at dusk. Even merchants who were caught in the darkness away from inns, villages, and outposts preferred to camp by the side of the road to wait for morning. But this little caravan of three carts, accompanied by four riders, crawled stubbornly through the night. The lanterns attached to the carts were unlit, and only the sentry in front was lighting his way, covering the box of a magic lamp with the flap of his cloak.

He was the first to spot the lone figure sticking out in the middle of the road. The rider laid down his horse and lifted the lamp. In its yellowish light the sentinel discerned a young man, whose rather fancy suit looked old and shabby. The man - of medium height, fair-haired, sturdily built - was standing precisely in the middle of the road, with his legs shoulder-width apart, wielding something like a club. On his belt hung a sword with a plain, old-fashioned hilt.

- Who are you? What are you doing here? - the horseman asked curtly, raising his arm with the lantern above his head. The cart behind him had come to a halt, and the other riders had moved closer to the carts to prepare for an attack. It looked very much like an ambush.

- Don Armando de Gorazzo, royal bailiff, - the man jabbed his "baton" at the sentinel with a disarming, white-toothed smile. It was a short metal rod with the coat of arms of the kingdom on its tip. - Bring me the master of the caravan.

The sentry hesitated for a few seconds, but turned his horse and rode toward the caravan. Leaning over in the saddle, he said something to the man sitting on the gantry of the first carriage, next to the carter. The man jumped down and walked briskly toward the calmly waiting bailiff. He had his right hand on the scabbard of a broad soldier's cleaver.

- Messire Albano! - The fair-haired official greeted the merchant as an old acquaintance. - What a meeting, isn't it? At a time like this, in a place like this...

- Armando... - the master of the caravan began angrily, but the bailiff interrupted him:

- Don Armando, messire. Do not forget.

- Don Armando, I should like to know what the devil you are doing here at night. - The merchant hissed through his teeth.

- As is my duty - to establish justice. - The bailiff yawned and patted his tipstaff on his palm. - In the glorious city of Daert, wise and fair laws have ruled for centuries. Royal laws, city laws, ecclesiastical laws, and various others - but all just laws, I repeat. And one of those laws says that contraband can only be brought into Daert by day, through certain outposts, and sold in certain places, after evaluation, by giving a certain share to worthy people.

- What the...

- Bribing a night-shift sergeant at the southern gate and conspiring directly with a couple of merchants to sell the goods to them in secret, Messire Albano, is a terrible violation of this law, - the bailiff did not let himself be interrupted. - Which must be stopped and punished. Which I, as a servant of justice, do now.

The merchant swore. He drew in air through clenched teeth and muttered:

- You found out... Who?

- Honorable sire Serpent, - Don Armando smiled again. - You have not been in town for a long time, but that has not changed - he is still in charge of smuggling.

- What does Serpent want?

- He wants me to escort a wagon train to his warehouses, where a third of the illicit goods and a fifth of the legal goods will be taken from you. After which you can sell the rest in the usual manner. Under the supervision of the sire's men, of course.

- But...

- But Don Gotech Ardano, my friend and colleague, will see to it that no one disturbs us on the way to the warehouses.

A huge black shadow protruded from behind the oaks along the road. The light of the moon touched it, but the shadow did not grow brighter. Don Gotech turned out to be a black-skinned desert giant, bald as a chicken's egg. The giant's dress was black, too, and the whites of his eyes gleamed, as did the rod in his right hand and the ominous-looking hook that replaced the bailiff's left wrist. The merchant swallowed, but found the strength to make a wry grin:

- I knew you two were doing business with Serpent, but I thought it was only in judicial matters. Running around on his payroll like that...

Don Armando snorted:

- I told you... Just defending justice in our spare time from royal service. Not sparing sleep and strength. Besides, we're not Mr. Snake's men, we're business partners. The crown pays our wages, and with the sire, we have... a combined income from our transactions. Can you feel the difference?

- I do. - The master of the caravan suddenly jumped back and whistled two fingers. The escort riders and the men on the carts rushed toward him. The first to arrive, of course, were the mounted men. The merchant raised his voice from behind the mounted mercenaries:

- The main thing I have understood is that you are not on duty. If my boys give you a beating, noble dons, you won't be complaining to your superiors, will you? He'd be wondering what you were doing here today, too. - He touched one of the mercenaries by the stirrup. - Captain, these men are threatening us. Count their bones.

There was a hiccup. The merchant's riders and servants looked at each other, in no hurry to rush into battle. Don Gotech stepped closer and stood shoulder to shoulder with Armando. He grinned grimly, causing a fair amount of commotion and whispering.

- What is it, Captain? - the merchant growled as the pause became too long.

- Messire Albano, on or off duty, these are the royal bailiffs, - said the rider, called the captain, in an overly level voice. - I don't want any trouble with the crown. Unless they try to kill you...

- God forbid! - Don Armando spluttered his hands.

- ...I see no reason to interfere in their affairs. - The mercenary folded his palms on the forelock of his saddle.

- Then... we'll do without you. - The caravan's owner panted, chest full, and shouted: - Whoever beats any of them to a pulp is double pay for the month! Whoever doesn't put up a fight is out of the service!

The five carters and the merchant's servants weren't too enthusiastic about the call. They exchanged uncertain glances and crumpled in place for a good half a minute before they made up their minds. Some drew a knife from their boots, some put their hands into their pockets for a lead weight for their fists. While the servants gathered their courage, the bailiffs attacked. Don Armando did not draw his sword. Instead, he slid forward, made a deep lunge with his tipstaff, as if wielding a sword. The massive steel crest at the tip of the staff and the forehead of the nearest servant touched. It was a weak blow, but the servant staggered back, gripping his head. The knife-wielding carriage driver tried to stab the don in the stomach - the bailiff struck his enemy in the fingers with the rod without any finesse. The man screamed, dropped his weapon, and fled to the side, cradling his bruised arm. Armando's partner was just as quick to finish off his part of the attackers. The big black man simply grabbed the first one by the neck, lifted him, and threw him into the bushes. The second, armed with a rusty knife, was kicked in the stomach by Gotech before he could take a swing. The third didn't wait his turn, flinging the rough shiv aside and running away. Armando shoved the bruised poor man with the rod, and he fell to the ground with a groan, keeping his hands on his head.

- And why was it so complicated, Messire Albano? - grinning, the fair-haired official tossed the rod into the special leather noose on his right thigh. - Only unnecessary expense. So if you had beaten us, so what? So we wouldn't have gone to court to complain... Messire Serpent would still be displeased with you. And his own men are not as polite as me and Don Ardano. Or do you no longer plan to do business in the city? Am I right? One last job in the capital and then you're off to faraway lands with a good deal? Huh?

The master of the caravan was silent. Then the bailiff turned to the commander of the mercenaries:

- It is a pleasure to meet a sensible man, captain. Please let your men help the wounded. The caravan is on its way. Beyond the outpost, I will show you the way to the necessary warehouses. If you and your men are free after unloading the goods, I invite everyone to drink. The great city of Daert, the heart of the world, welcomes you!

* * *

In the state Armando was in by morning, any sound louder than a mouse's squeak threatened him with an excruciating headache. So the insistent knocking on the window was interpreted by the young bailiff as an attempted murder. Mentally, having referred the case of an assassination attempt to the Royal Court, he forced himself to sit up and then to get out of bed without opening his eyes. As soon as he lifted his eyelids, something in his head burst, and de Gorazzo staggered. The pounding, meanwhile, did not cease. Its rhythm was familiar to the bailiff. And the fact that the second floor window was being knocked on was also suggestive. To the accompaniment of the annoying "knock-knock, knock-knock," Armando waddled to the barrel that replaced the washbasin, took a handful of ice-cold water. After admiring his reflection for a few seconds, he poured the water back and plunged his head resolutely straight into the barrel. This was almost the end of his life. Don barely had the strength to straighten himself up. The risk paid off, though, and it felt so much better. Not good at all, but lighter. After wiping himself dry and even risking a yawn, Armando finally went to the window. He unhooked the hook, pulled open the blurred sashes. He sighed when he saw exactly what he had expected. A dead sparrow was sitting on the tray, holding a note in its beak, rolled up into a tube. The sparrow had bones showing in places, and it smelled like rot.

- Give me that. - Armando took the note out of his beak. The dead bird spread its frayed wings, missing a good third of their feathers, jumped silently from the window sill, and flew off into the air. The scrap of paper it delivered read: "Armando, to the Hall of Executioners. Quickly." The signature was replaced by a round face showing his tongue. The face was stylized as a painted initial letter from an ancient manuscript. De Gorazzo could hardly suppress a chuckle. Crumpling the note, he began to dress.

It was not the first time Armando had woken up with a headache in a tavern room, and he had established a routine for himself long ago. Wash, dress, brine, walk. All the anguish and suffering that came with it was God's reward for yesterday's sins. They must be endured silently and with dignity.

Half of last night the bailiff sat in an ambush with Gotech, warmed only by wine from a flask. And even that was not worth the effort, because it was not the easiest thing to do. Returning to the capital and leaving the stubborn merchant and his contraband in the care of Serpent's men, the frozen Armando hurried to where three kinds of warmth awaited him - from the hearth, from the drink, and from the women's company. To put it simply, to the tavern. The mercenaries who had been invited soon arrived there as well. The bailiff spent the second half of the night in his own pleasure, for which he was now paying. Sipping brine at the bar in the main hall, de Gorazzo asked the host:

- Where is my friend?

- Which one, your nobility? There were many yesterday.

- The big one. The biggest.

- Ah. Master Gotech? He didn't spend the night here, he went to his place.

- Yes... - Armando stretched out respectfully, taking hold of a clay brine jug. - He had the strength...

It was no surprise, though. The black giant was very strong, of all things. Neither was he clever. Many knew that Gotech had been a soldier in the royal army during the war - that's where he lost his hand, that's where he earned his personal nobility, which paved the way for him to become a bailiff. But only good friends like Armando knew that the big man was not in the infantry, but in the Engineers, as a tenth officer. And at the very least, he knew better math than any of his current colleagues. Of course, this did not prevent Gotech from playing the illiterate desert ogre at every opportunity - it was very useful in his service at times.

- If you wish, your lordship, I'll send a boy to him with a message, - the tavern-keeper suggested. - What do you want me to tell him?

- It's okay, he's been summoned anyway, I'm sure. - Armando set the jug aside. - Do I owe you anything from the night?

- No, your lordship, you have been very... generous.

Appreciating host's smile, de Gorazzo felt for his wallet. There was a single coin left in it. Well, that's all right, it was only copper. And today or tomorrow the money would come from Serpent.

- Well, then... - The bailiff made an indefinite gesture with his hand and stood up. He went out into the street with a shaky step, but with every minute the don's gait was becoming more confident. Taking his horse from the stable, Armando did not saddle up but went on foot, leading the animal under the bridle. The note demanded haste, but de Gorazzo knew that to ride would be even slower than to walk. It didn't hurt to get the alcoholic aromas out of him either.

The hour was early, but the city was long awake. Carriages and wagons rolled down the cobblestone streets, ancient as history itself, and pedestrians huddled against the walls of buildings. Here, in the poor neighborhoods near the warehouses, the houses were almost new - but as he stepped toward the center, Armando felt as if he were sinking deeper and deeper into the past. A white house flashed through the gray stone, an empire-built multi-room house squeezed between the newer buildings. And ahead, on the famous Daertian hills, towered the thousand-year-old palaces from which emperors had once ruled the entire continent, and temples once dedicated to pagan gods, now crowned with the symbol of the One Creator. On the highest and steepest hill was the royal residence, adjacent to which was the Hall of Executioners, also known as the Hall of Justice.

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Climbing the hill, Armando began to pant. A bad sign - it seemed worth paying attention to his health. The young bailiff had spent more time lately in drinking establishments than on the training ground, and it was beginning to take its toll.

- Gotech is good, - de Gorazzo was puffing under his breath as he climbed the scratched stairs. - And I am a fool. I must learn from Gotech...

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.

As the patrol approached, the "blacks" and "greens" had already exchanged insults, but were just about to draw their swords. Armando drew his tipstaff  from its noose and, holding it in plain sight, exclaimed:

- Noble gentlemen! Do I see here a violation of the law?

- Go away, you dog, - snarled back the tallest of the "greens" - probably the ringleader of the group. - None of your business.

- Duels and group fights between the nobles of the realm are forbidden by decree of Queen Octavia, noble don. - De Gorazzo stopped a few steps away from the brute, folding his arms across his chest. - So this is my business. You are going to fight, are you not?

It was only now that the angry young man noticed the rod with the coat of arms on it. He frowned, slowed down a little:

- Forgive me, don, I mistook you for a soldier. But all the same, please leave. This is a private matter.

In spite of the polite wording, the lad's tone was still impertinent. Not only his comrades-in-arms, but his opponents as well, echoed him in agreement. It seemed to be a question of jangling blades for both sides, and what that was worth was a moot point.

- King's law forbids the nobles of the realm to draw their weapons against each other, - Armando repeated wearily, as if they were foolish children. The presence of soldiers behind him added to his confidence, though not much. Still, there were more bullies than soldiers, and if anything happened, the guards would surely get away. Armando did not see anyone particularly noble or influential among the potential violators - just the children of minor nobles and knights. But even these would not be attacked by ordinary soldiers, except in the presence of, and by order of, the queen herself. - Your intentions seem clear to me. I suggest you disperse peacefully and quietly.

- The laws of honor are older and more important than the royal laws, - said the rude boy, and he was again supported by consonant voices. - And these rascals have insulted me and my friends. We will settle this at once.

- Well, then I propose a compromise - leave the weapons and sort it out on fists. - The royal bailiff shook his hands.

- Are you mocking me, Don? - The young bully turned white. His cheekbones turned into jowls.

- Not at all. It's just that if I don't, I'll have to give the order and the soldiers will beat you with spears like rioting shopkeepers. - Armando was starting to get a little excited, too. He hoped all would be quiet for the rest of his tour of duty, and that he could collect the money from Serpent in the evening and then go to sleep. But two gangs of boys with coats of arms decided to ruin his day for good.

- Oh, you... - the bully roared, grabbing his sword. He didn't have time to draw his blade before the royal bailiff swiftly struck the lad across the head with his staff. He could have struck him in the fingers, leaving him unable to wield his weapon. But de Gorazzo hoped that, left without a ringleader, the troublemakers would scatter. Alas, he was mistaken. "'Green" and "Black" watched in amazement as the brute fell into the dust, and then picked up their swords, clearly forgetting their grievances against each other. The royal bailiff found himself face to face with a dozen of the sturdy, angry lads.

And at that very moment a dead pigeon swooped down on him. The shabby bird clawed at Armando's hair, pecked him on the head with its beak. When he realized he had a chance, de Gorazzo grabbed the pigeon and held it out in front of him with outstretched arms:

- Everyone calm down! Here is a messenger from the crown judicial necromancer! If you do not obey, magic will be used!

The pigeon rose in Armando's arms, menacingly raised its half-decomposed chest, spread its wings wide, and let out a hiss that was not at all birdlike, which startled not only the young bullies, but the soldiers behind the bailiff's back.

- Pick up your comrade and disperse! - De Gorazzo shouted. - Away! Move along! Sergeant, see to it!

The two groups obeyed, snarling, glaring now and then at the usher and now at each other. While the guards escorted them to the other side of the square, Armando released the pigeon and fumbled with the note he had brought in his hair. The note said: "After the patrol, come see the Count. Important." Instead of a signature, there was a familiar face and initial.

- Bad news always comes in good time, - de Gorazzo grinned mirthlessly. - At last they're of some use.