Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “Easy, my dear sir,” said a calm, cultured voice. “We mean you no harm. We only want to talk to you.”

  Jordan thought seriously about making a run for it. Whenever anyone started talking that politely, either they were intent on telling him something he didn’t really want to know, or they wanted to sell him something. On the other hand, from the sound of it there had to be more than just the one man hidden in the alley darkness, and he wasn’t that fast a runner at the best of times. Maybe he could bluff them … He held his head erect, took on the warrior’s stance he used when playing the ancient hero Sir Bors of Lyonsmarch, and glared into the gloom of the alley.

  “Honest men do their talking in the light,” he said harshly. “Not skulking in back alleys. Besides, I’m rather particular about who I talk to.”

  “I think you’ll talk with us, Jordan,” said the polite voice. “We’re here to offer you an acting role—a role beyond your wildest dreams and ambitions.”

  Jordan was still trying to come up with an answer to that when the three men stepped out of the alley mouth and into the fading light. Jordan backed away a step, but calmed down a little when they made no move to pursue him. He quickly resumed his warrior’s stance, hoping they hadn’t noticed the lapse, and looked the three men over carefully from behind the haughtiest expression he could manage. The man in the middle was clearly a noble of some kind, for all his rough peasant’s cloak and hood. His skin was pale and unweathered, and his hands were slender and delicate. Presumably this was the owner of the cultured voice. Jordan nodded to him warily, and the man bowed formally in return. He raised one hand and pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing a hawklike, unyielding face dominated by steady dark eyes and a grim, humorless smile. His black hair was brushed flat and heavily pomaded, giving his pale skin a dull, unhealthy look. He was tall, at least six foot two, probably in his early forties, and looked to be fashionably slim under his cloak. He wore a sword at his side, and Jordan had no doubt at all that this man would know how to use it. Even standing still and at rest, there was an air of barely contained menace about him that was unmistakable.

  “Well?” growled Jordan roughly, trying to gain the advantage before his knees started knocking. “Are we going to stand here staring at each other all night, or are you going to introduce yourself?”

  “I beg your pardon, Jordan,” said the noble smoothly. “I am Count Roderik Crichton, adviser to King Malcolm of Redhart. These are my associates: the trader Robert Argent, and Sir Gawaine of Tower Rouge.”

  Jordan nodded to them all impartially, and then sheathed his sword as an act of bravado. It seemed increasingly important to him that they shouldn’t think they had him at a disadvantage. According to the count’s graceful gestures, the man to his left was Robert Argent. He was short and sturdy, and wore a merchant’s clothes. His stomach bulged out on either side of a wide leather belt. His peasant’s cloak hung around him in drooping folds, as though it had been meant for a much taller man. His face was broad and ruddy, with the broken-veined cheeks of the heavy drinker. His eyes were a pale blue, and strangely dull and lifeless. His hair was straw yellow, cropped close to the skull. He looked to be in his late thirties, but the empty eyes made him seem much older. He wore a sword on his hip, but from the shiny newness of the scabbard, Jordan doubted the sword had seen much use. His eyes lingered on the man for a moment, though he wasn’t sure why. There was just something about Argent, something … cold.

  Sir Gawaine stood to Count Roderik’s right, leaning casually against the wall. He was chewing on a cold leg of chicken, and not being too careful about where the grease went. Jordan’s stomach rumbled loudly, and he gave the knight his best brooding scowl to compensate. Gawaine looked at him briefly, and then gave his full attention back to the chicken leg. Sir Gawaine of Tower Rouge … Jordan had a feeling he knew the name from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe he was a minor hero from the Demon War … He was tall and muscular, and though he had to be in his late fifties, his chest and shoulders were still impressively broad. Chain mail glinted under the peasant cloak, and Jordan caught a glimpse of a heavy-bladed hand ax at the man’s side. His hair was iron gray and cut in a style that hadn’t been fashionable for at least ten years. His face was lined and weathered, and when he looked at Jordan his eyes were dark and cynical. His scarred hands looked disturbingly powerful, and for all his apparent casualness he was no more at ease than Jordan. Everything about Gawaine shouted to the observant eye that this knight was a trained warrior, and experienced in his craft. Jordan decided immediately that if these three men turned out to be villains after all, he’d better go for Sir Gawaine first. And he’d better be bloody quick, because he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  “You mentioned an acting role,” said Jordan to Count Roderik.

  “The greatest role you’ll ever play,” said Roderik.

  “What’s the money like?” asked Jordan.

  “Ten thousand ducats,” said Robert Argent. His voice was flat and unemotional, and his cold gaze fixed unwaveringly on the actor.

  Jordan kept his face calm with an effort. Ten thousand ducats was more than he’d ever earned in a year, even at the peak of his career. And that was a long way behind him. Ten thousand ducats … there had to be a catch.

  “Assuming, for the sake of argument, that I’m interested in this job,” he said carefully, “what kind of role would I be playing?”

  “Nothing too difficult,” said Roderik. “A prince—the middle of three sons. There’s a great deal of background information you’ll have to learn by heart, but an actor of your reputation shouldn’t have any trouble with that. After all, you are the Great Jordan.” He paused, and frowned slightly. “Is Jordan your real name, or would you prefer I used another, offstage?”

  The actor shrugged. “Call me Jordan. It’s a good name, and I earned it.”

  “I was most impressed with your performance this evening,” said Roderik. “Did you write the material yourself?”

  “Of course,” said Jordan. “A strolling player has to be able to adapt his story to suit the level of his audience. Sometimes they want wit and eloquence, sometimes they want conjuring and fireworks. It varies. Did you like my High Warlock? I created the character after extensive research, and I flatter myself I caught the essence of the man.”

  “Nothing like him,” said Sir Gawaine. His voice was harsh, with bitter undertones. He looked at the ragged chicken leg in his hand, and threw it casually over his shoulder. Jordan’s stomach rumbled again, and he glared angrily at the knight.

  “Is that so, Sir Gawaine? Perhaps you’d care to tell me what he was really like?”

  “He chased women and drank too much,” said Gawaine.

  “He was a great sorcerer!” said Jordan hotly. “Everybody said so! He saved the Forest Kingdom from the demon prince! All right, there were a few rumors about him, but there are always rumors. And besides … it makes for a better show my way.”

  Sir Gawaine shrugged, and looked away.

  “If we could return to the subject at hand,” said Roderik icily, glancing angrily at the knight. “You haven’t yet said if you’ll accept the role, sir actor.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Jordan. “I’ve nothing better to do, for the moment.” For ten thousand ducats he’d have played the back end of a mummer’s horse, complete with sound effects, but he wasn’t going to tell them that. Maybe he could hit them for an advance … He looked at Count Roderik. “Well, my lord, shall we get down to business? What exactly is this role, and when do I start?”

  “You start now,” said Argent. “We want you to return with us to Castle Midnight, and impersonate Prince Viktor of Redhart.”

  Jordan’s heart sank, and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether to scream or faint. “You have got to be joking! Forget it! I’m not getting involved in any conspiracy to commit treason. I once saw a man hanged, drawn, and quartered. It took him two hours to die, and he only stopped screaming when his voice gave out.�
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  “There’s no question of anything treasonable,” said Roderik soothingly. “Prince Viktor knows all about this substitution, and has agreed to it.”

  Jordan looked suspiciously at the three men before him. They all looked very serious. Sir Gawaine had even pushed himself away from the wall to stand upright. Jordan noticed uneasily that the knight’s right hand was now out of sight under his cloak, resting just where the hand ax had been. Jordan turned his attention back to Count Roderik, mainly because it was less disturbing looking at him than it was at Sir Gawaine. He gave the count his best intimidating scowl, and tucked his thumbs into his sword belt to stop his hands shaking. “If the prince knows about this, then what … oh, I get it. You want me to act as a decoy—a double to draw out an assassin! The deal is off. I’m an actor, not an archery target.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Count Roderik, his voice practically dripping sincerity, “I assure you we wouldn’t waste someone of your undoubted talents on a simple decoy’s job. Allow me to explain the situation. Prince Viktor is required by law and tradition to undergo a series of rituals shortly, at Castle Midnight. Unfortunately, he is indisposed at present with a rather troublesome illness, and is unable to perform the rituals. But if he doesn’t appear, he’ll lose his inheritance. So, we need someone who can act enough like the prince to take his place in public and perform the rituals. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Ah,” said Jordan. “I see.” He didn’t believe for one moment that Roderik was telling him the whole truth, but for the time being, he might as well act as though he did. After all, if he’d learned anything as an actor, it was that the aristocracy hadn’t a clue as to the real value of money. You could charge them extortionate amounts for performances, not to mention expenses, and they didn’t even blink. If he played his cards right and watched his back, ten thousand ducats could be just the beginning …

  “Assuming I was interested in this job,” he said carefully, “there are some obvious difficulties. What about appearance, for example? How similar are the prince and I in looks? There’s a limit to what I can do with makeup.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Roderik. “I have a small talent for sorcery. A simple glamour spell, and you’ll become an exact double of the prince. Much more important is your being able to convince Viktor’s friends and family that you are who you seem. For that, we need an actor of your considerable talent. Our agents have been traveling throughout the land, searching for someone suitable, and you can imagine how delighted we were when word came back to us that you might be available. To be honest, we hadn’t even heard you were in Redhart …”

  Jordan shrugged airily. “Every career has its ups and downs. If you’d have asked me this at the same time last year, I’d have had to turn you down. The pressure of work was just too great. But, luckily for you, at the moment I’m at liberty to give you my full attention.”

  “This time last year,” said Robert Argent, “you were in a debtors’ prison in Hillsdown. You haven’t appeared in a major theater in almost three years. You’re just another strolling player, Jordan, and if you don’t want this job, we can find a dozen just like you to take your place.”

  Jordan gave him a hard look. “There is no one like me,” he said flatly. “I’m the Great Jordan. And if I hear one more word out of you that I don’t like, Argent, I’ll double my fee.” He deliberately turned his back on Argent, and looked thoughtfully at Count Roderik. “This glamour spell that’s going to make me look like Viktor; can it be removed easily when the job’s finished?”

  “Of course,” said Roderik. “But now, my dear fellow, we are in something of a hurry. It will take us at least a week’s hard traveling to reach Castle Midnight, and the rituals are due to begin shortly after that. I’m afraid we must insist on knowing your answer now.”

  Ten thousand ducats … maybe more … a chance to start over again … a role that could be a real challenge … There’s got to be a catch, but I don’t give a damn.

  “I’m your man,” said Jordan. “We can leave as soon as I’ve brought fresh provisions.”

  “We already have everything you’ll need,” said Argent. “Roderik, start the spell. We’ve wasted enough time in this filthy hole.”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Jordan quickly. “You want to cast the glamour spell right here and now? Where everyone can see us?”

  “No one will see us in this light,” said Roderik. “The spell is quick and quite painless, I assure you. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”

  Jordan looked suspiciously at Roderik. There’s nothing to worry about was the kind of thing the traveling dentist said as he knelt on your chest and poked his pliers into your mouth. But he couldn’t argue. He’d agreed to take on the role, and the spell was a necessary part of it. He’d just thought he’d get a bit more warning …

  Roderik took Jordan’s silence for assent, and raised his left hand. He frowned, and muttered something under his breath. Jordan strained his ears to try and catch the quiet words, but the few he caught were in a language he didn’t recognize. They sounded harsh and grating and somehow … disturbing, and Jordan suddenly wondered if perhaps he’d made a mistake after all. Count Roderik fell silent, and made a sharp, twisting motion with his left hand. Jordan gasped, startled, as his skin suddenly began to itch and creep. His face twitched convulsively. He started to lift his hands to his face, and found he couldn’t. His whole body had locked solidly in place. He couldn’t even blink his eyes. He struggled furiously, to no avail, and then his anger gave way to panic as the first changes began. His bones creaked and groaned. His flesh shuddered, rising and falling like a series of ripples on the surface of a pond. He tried to move or run or scream, and couldn’t. His panic rose another notch when he found his breathing was becoming increasingly shallow. Sweat poured off him. His vertebrae popped one after the other as his back stretched, giving him an extra two inches in height. His fingers tingled painfully as his hands grew long and slender. New cords of muscle crawled along his chest and arms and back. His legs grew thick and sturdy. His face trembled as his features lost definition and then grew firm again in a new shape. And as suddenly as it had begun, the paralysis was gone, and his flesh grew still again.

  Jordan swayed on his feet, and Sir Gawaine was quickly there at his side. Jordan clung to the knight’s arm as his head slowly cleared, and his harsh breathing gradually returned to normal. He finally straightened up, and let go of Gawaine’s arm. He gave Gawaine a quick, grateful nod, and then stared in something like horror at his hands. He lifted them up before his face and looked at them, turning them back and forth before him. They weren’t his hands. The length, shape, and shade were wrong. But the fingers flexed obediently at his command, and he could feel the cool of the evening moving over them. He lowered his hands and looked down at his body. His clothes no longer fit him. He was taller now, and his arms and legs were longer. His shirt was tightly stretched across his new chest and shoulders, and his belt hung loosely about his flatter stomach. Jordan felt a brief surge of vertigo as his mind refused to accept the new body it found itself in, and then the feeling died away as he brought it under control. Jordan was used to being different people at different times. He was an actor. He looked at Count Roderik, who bowed formally.

  “Your Highness. Would you like to see a mirror?”

  Jordan nodded dumbly. Argent produced a small hand mirror from a pocket in his cloak, and handed it to Jordan.

  The face in the glass was traditionally handsome, in a dark, saturnine way. The jet black hair was thick and wavy, and showed off the firm bony planes of the face. The eyes were a surprisingly mild brown, but the mouth was flat and uncompromising. Someone had broken the nose a long time ago, and it hadn’t been set quite right. The owner of the face looked to be in his midtwenties, but there was something about the eyes and mouth that made him look older.

  Yes … thought Jordan finally. I can do something with this face. This … Prince Viktor.

>   He handed the mirror back to Argent, who replaced it carefully in his pocket. Jordan scowled at Count Roderik, and let his new right hand drop to the sword at his side.

  “When you said a glamour spell, Roderik, I thought you meant some kind of illusion.” The new voice sounded a little deeper than he was used to, but not enough to throw him.

  Roderik smiled at Jordan, and shook his head. “Illusions are too easily seen through—especially at Castle Midnight. This spell is fixed, until such time as it is specifically reversed. Physically, you are now an exact duplicate of Prince Viktor of Redhart.”

  Jordan looked at Argent and Sir Gawaine. “Well, what do you think? Will I pass?”

  Argent nodded stiffly. “No one will be able to tell the difference. You even sound like him.”

  “The voice is right,” said Sir Gawaine, “but you’ll have to learn Viktor’s way of speaking. The prince has been away from court for almost four years, and we can use that to explain away some differences in behavior, but you’ll have to study his background every chance you get. You screw up on this, and we’re all dead.”

  Jordan looked quickly at Roderik. “I thought you said we had Prince Viktor’s permission for this little masquerade?”

  “We do,” said Roderik. He shot an angry glance at Gawaine. The knight ignored him. Roderik looked seriously at Jordan, and the actor tensed up inside. He knew that look. It was that particular mixture of sincerity and hesitation that meant he was about to be told something necessary but unpleasant.

  “The situation at Castle Midnight is rather complicated at present,” said Roderik. “King Malcolm died four weeks ago, some say by poison. His daughter, the Lady Gabrielle, found him dead in his chambers. It’s not clear yet which of his three sons will succeed him, so it’s vital that no one finds out that Viktor is ill, and … vulnerable. Once he’s well again, he’ll take over the necessary rituals and public appearances, but until then you’ll take his place. It’s really quite straightforward. However, should you be exposed as an impostor at any time, Viktor’s brothers will undoubtedly have you killed. Princes tend to be very sensitive about the use of doubles.”