True to my words, I slipped out of the palace from a side door just after the midday meal. I’d exchanged my supple leather armour – which I usually wore in place of plate while in the city, where moving quickly and silently was important – for a simple pair of cotton trousers, a cotton shirt, and a wool cloak. I left my sword in my room to avoid unwanted attention,since by law only nobles and soldiers could carry one in public, but I still fastened a dagger on a belt around my waist; that wasn’t unusual, everyone always had some sort of blade with them.

After twisting and turning through some alleys to make sure no one had followed me, I pulled on my hood and made my way to the market district, which was situated near the western wall, close to one of the main doors leading out from the city into the countryside, about a half hour’s walk from the royal palace. When I got there I stopped at a fruit and vegetable stand, and took an apple from it while handing the owner a copper coin.

“Hello Adrian, how are you doing?” I asked with a smile, pulling off my hood.

“Well look who it is! Long time no see, Hector!” he replied. “Thought you’d finally died in some faraway place.”

“It was only three days, man,” I said.

“Three long days, you mean,” he returned.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” I apologised, but Adrian shook his head.

“Don’t apologise to me. They’ve been waiting for you.” He paused, leaned forward, and gave me a significant look. “Understand? They’re waiting for you.”

I smirked. “You don’t need to warn me, Adrian, I’ll be fine.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t say anything,” he replied.

“Thanks anyway,” I said, and grabbed another apple. I was about to give him a second copper coin, but he put his hand up.

“That one’s on the house,” he said. I nodded, and when I walked away he called “Have fun!” after me.

I made my way through the market, crunching on one of the apples, waving and greeting everyone I saw. As Hector (the pseudonym I’d chosen for myself, first for an undercover job, and then to avoid being recognised when I was out and about minding my own business) I was quite famous and popular in that part of town; I think most people there thought I was some mid-level merchant, who came by once in a while, and who liked to talk and chat – nobody had made the connection between the 25-year-old who’d taken over command of the Royal Knights two years before and the persona I showed when I was off duty yet. I’d managed to make several friends, too: besides Adrian, there was Ariel, the butcher’s wife; Emma, who owned the clothing and fabric stall; Marcus, who sold beer and ale he brewed himself; and many more. I was quite attached to them.

Soon I slipped into a side alley, which I followed until I emerged in a small, empty plaza. I had the feeling I was being watched.

I tossed away the apple core and took an easy stance, ready for action.

We’re not dancers, we’re fighters.

Suddenly there was a crunching noise behind me – someone had stepped on some gravel; I spun around just in time to see a weapon swing down at me. I stepped to the side, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and used their own momentum to flip them around my hip, sending them flying and crashing into a pile of bedrolls which were set against one of the walls of the plaza.

I straightened myself, and saw two more people charging at me, weapons at the ready for a slash; I grabbed the second, uneaten apple from my pocket and tossed it at one of them, hitting them in the head and staggering them for a second, just enough time for me to dodge the other one’s slash, grab them by the hand, and twist it until they let out a cry of pain and dropped their weapon.

I flipped them over, sending them sprawled on the ground, and picked up the weapon they’d dropped; I parried a couple attacks, then again stepped to the side, dodging an attack coming from behind – because of course someone would try to hit me when I was otherwise preoccupied, it was basic strategy. I kicked backwards and was rewarded with a muffled “Oof” as I hit something, and then I slashed at the hand of the person in front of me; they reflexively opened their fingers when they were hit, dropping their weapon too.

I spun around, dodged slashes from two other attackers with the barest of movements, and then closed the distance: I was in their face before they even realised it, and I took their moment of surprise as my chance to place a hand on each of their chests and push them off-balance and to the ground.

And then there was only one of them left; they were clearly the most expert of the group, and they stepped carefully around me, eyeing me closely, trying to find an opening.

Well then, let them have that opening.

I pretended to stumble on the uneven flagstones that lined the plaza, and at that moment they lunged; I lifted my arm and spun my cloak around, catching them in the face and blinding them for a second, and then I thrust my weapon forward, hitting them in the chest. Defeated, they dropped to the ground.

I paused, waiting for the next attack, but none came. I took a deep breath, and dropped the stick I was holding.

“Alright then, that was a good workout! How are you all? Anyone hurt, anything broken?” I called loudly, clapping my hands twice.

There was a groan from the pile of bedrolls where I’d sent my first attacker. “You okay over there?” I asked.

“Yeah, teach, I’m fine, I’m just winded, give me a second,” came a voice.

“Good. How ‘bout you, Enrique?” I asked, offering a hand to the one I’d kicked. “Where did I hit you?”

“In the stomach, but I’m okay,” he replied, taking my hand and letting me pull him to his feet. “I tightened my abs like you taught me, that softened the blow.”

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Teach!”

I turned around, to look into Fergus’ frowning face – he was the one I’d blinded with my cloak.

“You cheated!” he said accusingly.

I barely suppressed a smirk. “I did no such thing,” I replied.

He paused briefly, but then went on the offensive again. “That thing with the cloak--”

“I just used the resources I had at my disposal, Fergus,” I said, matter-of-factly. “The cloak, the apple… In a fight, you make everything count. Anything can be a weapon. If this had been a real ambush, you’d be dead.” I poked him in the middle of his chest with my finger, right where I’d hit him with my wooden pretend-sword.

He hesitantly nodded. “I see your point,” he answered.

“Good,” I said, and paused for a few seconds, then smiled. “But still, that was very good! Y’all almost had me there!”

Fergus frowned again. “Don’t humour us, teach,” he replied.

“No, I mean it,” I said. “In a few more tries, you’ll probably be able to land a hit on me.”

He perked up as the other kids joined us, while dusting themselves off. “And then you’ll have to tell us who you really are! You know we don’t buy you being a merchant at all.”

I nodded. “When you manage to hit me, I’ll tell you. Now, let’s get on with the drills, we have a lot of sunlight ahead of us.”

And that was the secret: I was spending almost all the time off I had helping out at a makeshift swordsmanship school that I’d randomly run into one day, several months before, when I was out taking a walk in the market district; I’d seen that a handful of local kids had taken upon themselves to try and learn the art of the blade, taking over the small plaza and guided by nothing except an old and worn sword-fighting manual they’d found in a trash heap – and they’d been lucky a couple of them knew how to read. However, their movements and form were completely off, and I’d only watched them for a few minutes before deciding that would not do at all: if any one of them tried to fight with what they’d learned, they’d get themselves killed in short order.

So I stepped in, and set them straight. Taught them discipline, drills, proper form. After a while I named one of my best pupils, Fergus, as teacher-in-charge, and I went there myself once or twice a week to help out. I had fun, and it was the least I could do to help the kids, but as a result the class had swelled to about twelve to fifteen boys and girls (I made no difference between them), depending on the day, aged eight to sixteen, and I’d become a well-known name and face in the market district – with my Hector pseudonym, of course: if word got out that Count Herik Wagner von Harburg, Commander of the Royal Knights, was running a clandestine swordsmanship school, I would never hear the end of it, and the Prince Regent would be sure to order me to cease at once.

The kids – and the rest of the market people, most likely – didn’t buy my cover story, however. Some of them tried to follow me as I returned to the palace, but I was very good at not being followed, so every attempt they made turned out to be fruitless. But they’d begged and cajoled me so much that I’d promised that if one of them could land a hit on me, I would tell them my real name and profession. Of course I set some ground rules: no bladed weapons, just sticks; only a half dozen of them could attack me at any one time, to avoid me being mobbed; and once they’d been hit or pushed to the ground, they were out – they couldn’t get back up. They were starting to get good, and sooner or later they would succeed.

I spent the whole afternoon helping the children practice their swings and parries, and I bought them all dinner at one of the market stalls when we were done. While we ate, some people came over to tell me how much they appreciated me being there for the kids. “It gives them purpose,” said Ariel.

That night I went to bed satisfied on an afternoon well spent. No, rather, a whole day, despite the failed warehouse raid and not having managed to convince the prince to do anything for the poor. No matter, I would try again the next day.

 

I was awoken by an incessant banging on my door well before sunrise.

“Commander! Commander, open up!” I heard Andrej’s voice call.

I was instantly awake – years as a soldier had taught me to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice after waking up. I rose to my feet, quickly slipped on a cotton tunic over my trousers (I always slept bare-chested), grabbed my sword belt from its usual place by my bedside, and put it on; then I marched to the door and flung it open.

Andrej was standing in front of me, his hand raised to knock on my door again; he was flanked by two other Royal Knights in full armour, and behind them were about a half dozen members of the Palace Guard. When I opened the door Andrej let his hand drop and he turned his head, to avoid meeting my eyes.

“What’s the matter, Andrej? What happened?” I asked.

Andrej took a deep breath; he was still not looking at me. “Commander Herik, it is my sad duty to tell you that you have been charged with high treason,” he said. His voice was low, but clearly audible. “I’ve been ordered to take you to the throne room to stand judgement.”

I frowned. “On whose authority?”

Andrej’s shoulders dropped. “The Prince Regent’s.”

My frown deepened. What was all this about? “Lead the way, then,” I said.

Andrej walked in front of me as we made our way through the palace corridors; the other two knights flanked me, and behind me came the Palace Guard, their hands on the pommel of their swords. For whatever reason, they clearly expected me to make a run for it, and wanted to be ready should I actually attempt it.

I could’ve taken them, of course. Not straight-up won the fight, but with my training as a Royal Knight I could have escaped with ease. Had I known what was to come, maybe I would have.

The throne room had clearly been prepared for a trial: several chairs flanked the throne, upon which some nobles, who were members of the council and advisors to the Prince Regent, were sitting. A raised wooden platform was in the middle of the room, and I was instructed to stand on it. The other Knights, including Andrej, were left outside the room, but I was surrounded by the Palace Guard.

Prince Izaak, for once, was sitting straight in the throne; he gave me a look of contempt.

“My lord,” I began. “I don’t understand--”

“You shall not speak unless commanded to, or to answer a direct question. That is an order,” the prince said, his voice loud and deliberate.

I nodded my head. “By your command,” I replied.

“Good,” he said, then he nodded to one of the nobles to his left, who stood up, produced a sheet of parchment from his belt, and read aloud from it.

“Commander Herik, you are charged with high treason for aiding and abetting the rebellion against your liege. How do you plead?”

What?

“Not guilty,” I said.

“Let the record show the accused has refused to confess to his guilt,” the noble said. I was about to object, but then I remembered the order the prince had given me, so I remained quiet.

The noble sat down, and another stood up, another piece of parchment in his hand. “The proof presented before this tribunal is as follows: first, during the last six months, Commander Herik has failed to bring the rebels to justice; second, Commander Herik is often absent from his post, instead going into the city on unknown business; third, over the last three weeks, Commander Herik has deliberately let the leaders of the rebels escape in a series of failed raids.”

As he read on, I felt my eyes begin to bug out of my head. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing; this was completely absurd. Everything was technically true, but presented in a distorted and partial way.

The noble continued: “Fourth, during yesterday’s raid, Commander Herik spared a rebel’s life; fifth, Commander Herik has failed to report treasonous speech made in his presence by another Knight to his liege; sixth, evidence has been found that Commander Herik has provided information to the leadership of the rebels, which allowed them to escape capture during yesterday’s raid.”

The reader looked up from the parchment to me. “Commander Herik. Considering the proof, do you wish to change your plea? There may be clemency, if you do so now.”

What proof? Everything was just circumstantial, nothing was hard evidence. This was all made up.

“I do not,” I replied.

The noble nodded. “Let the record show that the accused has still refused to confess to his guilt.” He sat down.

“This was found in the cache at the warehouse you raided yesterday, commander,” Prince Izaak said, waving a sheet of parchment. “Do you recognise it?”

“I don’t, my lord,” I answered.

“This is your handwriting, is it not?” he asked.

“I can not tell from this distance.”

“Guards, bring this document to the accused,” the prince ordered. One of the guards bowed in front of him, then took the parchment from his hand and brought it to me. I read it.

Be warned, the Royal Knights will be raiding the warehouse in the early hours of the morning. Do not be found there. Signed, your friend.

It had clearly been written by someone warning the Children of Kendrik about the previous day’s raid; and astonishingly, it was in my handwriting.

I looked up from the parchment. “This looks like it was written by my hand, my lord, but--”

“Let the record show the accused has confessed to writing the document entered into evidence,” one of the nobles said.

“My lord, this is ridiculous! This is clearly a forgery!” I shouted. “And I did not spare the kid’s life, there was just no need to kill him! And as for the Knight who supposedly made that treasonous speech, if you’ll just let me speak to him--”

“I did order you not to talk unless spoken to, did I not?” the prince coldly interrupted me. “And anyway, Knight Aleix has been executed for treason and sedition, just a few hours ago.”

I gaped at Prince Izaak. “Executed? But--”

“And so have all the rebels captured in yesterday’s raid, after interrogation of course.”

I just stared at him. He’d just killed all of them? Just like that? I’d given them my word they wouldn’t be harmed if they surrendered! And now…

“I have heard enough,” the Prince Regent said, standing up from the throne. “Commander Herik, on the basis of the proof that has been presented, and on the basis of your confession, I pronounce you guilty of high treason as charged.”

He stared directly at me. “The sentence is thus: you shall be stripped of your rank as Commander of the Royal Guard, and of your noble status, along with with all your holdings and belongings.” He paused, and then continued: “Furthermore, you are ordered to report to Master Verdun’s laboratory for your… Punishment.”

Verdun was Harburg’s court wizard; every king and ruler worth their salt had one in their service, mostly as a status symbol, since magic was difficult to master and exceedingly rare, and competent wizards were even rarer. Verdun had been in the employ of King Dominik for several years, but the king was distrustful of him, as was I – there was just something about him, he was very shifty, always whispering behind other people’s backs. Izaak, on the other hand, had consulted him often, even before ascending as Prince Regent.

Why would Verdun be involved in my punishment?

“Do I make myself clear?” the prince asked. When he saw me hesitate, he added: “Need I remind you of your oath as a Knight? The oath you’re still bound to? Especially the part regarding obeying orders?”

I stared at him for few seconds, then bowed my head. “By your command,” I said.

I unfastened my sword belt and let it drop to the floor – since I was now neither a noble nor a soldier, I wasn’t allowed to carry it any more; then the Palace Guard escorted me out of the throne room, towards Verdun’s laboratory.