by Peter David
There would be guilt, yes, but the guilt would fade, erased by comfort and pleasure. And the simple truth was that there was nothing I could do that would truly be of interest to Madelyne. She was dead and gone, and all the justice in the world wouldn’t be of any use to her.
For no reason that I could quite discern, that remarkable tapestry with the phoenix on it momentarily caught my attention. I wanted to try and emblazon it in my memory, carry the image with me although I didn’t know why.
All of this went through my mind in what must have been only a moment, and then the great heaviness in my chest suddenly started to buck, as if trying to force its way out. There was an awful congestion within my lungs. I tried to fight it, for I did not want to appear weak in front of the assemblage—at least, any weaker than nature had already made me—and in doing so, I tried to bring my right hand up to cover a cough. As I did so, the coins flew from my hand, scattering across the floor with a musical tinkling sound.
There was a gasp from the assemblage, and the face of Sir Justus could have been carved from stone. The burly knight nearby gave even more visible evidence of what appeared to be outrage, his face positively purpling as if he were a swelling pustule about to explode. There was also a giddy peal of nervous laughter, originating from one who had apparently just entered. His garb marked him unmistakably as the court jester. Aside from that one high-pitched giggle, however, he didn’t contribute anything else to the moment, which had suddenly become etched with tension.
I had no idea what had just happened, or why they appeared so angry, and then I realized: From their point of view, I had just thrown the money on the floor in what could only be regarded as a gesture of utter contempt.
I was about to explain, to drop to one knee and try to gather the coins up and beat a hasty retreat, and then Sir Justus said, “How dare you, you little whore’s son. This … this is how you respond to my generosity? I have been patient with you, from pity for your lame state if nothing else, but my patience is done. Out! Now!”
It occurred to me at that moment that I might make a good recruit for King Meander, for my nature was apparently no less perverse than his. I had been ready to leave … until Justus ordered me to go. I looked at the clear fury in his face, betrayed by the veins on his temple, which were throbbing.
For once in my life, I felt truly empowered. My head was swimming with the giddiness of the sensation. Here was a knight, a highly ranked knight, surrounded by his fellows, getting himself into an uproar owing to a perceived insult by me, an individual who was so comparatively low on the social scale of Isteria that I might as well not have existed at all. It was as if I, a lowborn lame son of a whore, had been elevated to peer of a knight just by dint of appearing to be an ingrate.
It was a heady, intoxicating experience, the joyous sensation accentuated, no doubt, by the fact that I could barely think straight as I felt illness crawling through me, invading me. Yet in a way, that illness was suddenly my closest friend, for I was doing everything I could to ignore it and, thus, became more focused.
I didn’t want to let go of this power. I liked making the knights mad. I wanted to do it because it gave me twisted pleasure to be able to affect them in that way. Here I had been, subject to their sneers and clear attitude of superiority, as if I was shit on their shoes. They weren’t sneering now, no they weren’t. They were disconcerted, bewildered that such as I would openly hold such as them in contempt. They didn’t know, of course, that I—bastard offspring of one of their number—knew them for the hypocritical cretins that they were. Yes, I was definitely keeping that piece of knowledge to myself, for knowledge was even more power, and I was becoming drunk on that power.
“How dare I? How dare you!” Putting all my strength into holding on to my staff with my right hand, I made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the rest of the room. “How dare you call yourselves knights and lovers of justice! I spit on your offerings! I spit on you!”
The burly knight was trembling with rage, but he was remaining where he was. I was presupposing that these mighty soldiers wouldn’t want to sully themselves attacking a mere lame peasant. He said, “Have you forgotten where you are? Who you are? Who we are? This …” and he pointed a shaking finger in the direction of Justus, “is Sir Justus of the High Born! I am Sir Coreolis of the Middle Lands! Who do you think you are, to speak so to us!”
“I?” And my voice seemed to soar, louder and stronger than ever, despite the congestion in my chest that threatened to choke me. “I am Apropos, of nothing, and as far as I am concerned, you can kiss my lame, whore’s-son ass!”
I figured this was the point when they would have the guards evict me. It was only when Justus and Coreolis yanked their swords free of their scabbards that I realized I had figured wrong.
“Now,” said Justus, very quietly, very dangerously, “you’re going to be Apropos, less of nothing. Less an ear, less an arm … or maybe I’ll just relieve you of that useless leg of yours.”
The softness in his voice was enough to make me believe, just for a moment, that he was still giving me a chance to leave. That was another miscalculation on my part, however, for without another word, Sir Justus charged. Although he wielded only a short sword, it made him no less dangerous, and I could see even from where I stood the razor sharpness of the blade. I also noticed, much to my surprise, that Justus was missing two fingers on his right hand.
Coreolis was coming in as well, but from a different angle and a bit slower, clearly more than happy to let Justus have the initial pleasure of carving me to bits. From all through the court, there was a collective roar of approval from the other knights, who were looking forward to seeing their insulted brethren slice and dice the lame peasant upstart.
Naturally, I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I ran like hell.
At least, that was what I tried to do. But at that moment, everything that was wrong, and had ever been wrong with me, caught up in one shot. My lame right leg gave out, and I wasn’t able to recover because a staggering spell of dizziness went through me. I tried to reverse myself, to clutch onto my staff and balance myself that way, but it didn’t work. Instead I tumbled to the floor, my staff still in my hands, but otherwise helpless. One would have thought that, considering the fact that I was fallen, Justus would have backed off. But there was bloodlust in his eyes, his honor too much at stake, and he didn’t slow his charge in the least. He came within a couple of feet of me and, setting himself in a stance, brought his blade up and back like a butcher about to cleave the skull of a hog.
And as my vision blurred, I realized that I was still clutching my staff angled up across my body … and that the dragon end of the staff was in proximity to Justus’s crotch.
I squeezed the handle … and the four-inch blade, rigged up by Tacit, obediently snapped out of the dragon’s mouth, positioned no more than a cat’s whisker from Justus’s most vulnerable area.
The snap sound of the blade was most distinctive, and the area from which it originated caught Justus’s attention so that he was wise enough to look down and see his peril. He froze in position. Coreolis, on the other hand, didn’t notice his associate’s jeopardy, and was standing nearby my waist on the other side, apparently ready to hack me in two.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I said with a calm that surprised me more than anyone.
Their view of what was occurring was partly blocked by the positions of the knights’ own bodies, but others were starting to draw nearer to the little standoff we were having, and their eyes bulged when they saw the predicament.
“You wouldn’t dare,” blustered Coreolis, his sword still poised to bisect me, but he didn’t sound terribly sure of that.
“Your swords,” and from my position on the floor, I calculated the arcs involved, “each have to travel approximately six feet down in order to strike. My blade, on the other hand, has only half an inch to its target, and requires not much of a thrust to strike home. Even a dying jab wil
l suffice. The question presented is … can you kill me … before the lowborn unmans the highborn.”
It was, in retrospect, an impressive speech considering that every word was an effort for me to form. My tongue felt as if it had swollen to twice normal size, and my voice sounded thick to my ears. But obviously I had gotten my point across … so to speak.
No one moved. For a moment, I thought we might be there forever.
And then an unfamiliar voice, speaking with an odd mixture of amusement and confidence, said, “What’s all this, then?”
There were gasps, and murmurs of, “Your Majesty!,” and everyone in the court went down to one knee, with the exception of Justus, Coreolis, and myself, who remained human statues.
The owner of the voice stepped around, and from there on the floor, I got my first look at King Runcible of Isteria.
“Well, well … what have we here?” he asked.
At that moment, the jester leaped forward, spinning about, doing a little jig, and … plucking a lyre … he sang out …
“A rude but daring whore’s son has braved the Justice Halls, Offended good Sir Justus, whom he’s now got by the—”
I didn’t hear the end of the rhyme, because that was when I lost consciousness. But I suspected I could figure it out.
Chapter 9
It was raining on my face.
At least, that’s what it felt like to me. Cold water, moisture sopping into me, and I tried to reach up and brush away whatever was causing it. I was surprised, in a distant sort of way, to discover that I couldn’t move my arm. It wasn’t restrained; there simply wasn’t enough strength in it. It was as if my muscles had shut down from disuse.
I tried to speak, but all I could manage was a slight croak. Everything seemed dark and damp, and then a wet cloth was lifted off my face. I blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in through the window next to my bed. “Wha—?” I said, which was a brilliant thing to say. I’m not even sure the word was recognizable coming from my constricted throat.
There was a woman leaning over me, smiling. I took her to be a maidservant of some sort. She was in her late forties, I thought, wearing a simple blue gown. She looked rather maternal; in a way, she vaguely reminded me of my mother. Her eyes were dark brown, and her silvery hair was tied back in a bun. Her first words weren’t addressed to me, but rather to someone I couldn’t see, probably standing outside my field of vision. “Send word. Our young rebel is awake.” Then her smile widened as she continued to dab at my face with the cloth, as if she were mopping up a stain. “Hello,” she said. “You gave us quite a scare for a while.”
“Scare?” At least the word sounded a bit more intelligible. “Why … scare … ?”
She dipped the cloth back into a small basin of water, wrung out the excess water, and bathed my face again. I was bare-chested, lying under sheets that were cool and pleasant. “You’ve been unconscious for three full days. Just keeping water flowing into you has been challenge enough. Fortunately, we have a most excellent mediweaver in our employ. Far more reliable than doctors.”
I shuddered slightly. The thought of someone using magic to cure my ills was rather disconcerting for some reason. I actually preferred the methods that Tacit used. In our time in the forest together, Tacit had given me a basic grounding in the sorts of roots and herbs that were helpful at times of illness.
“Three … days …” I asked, and became aware of just how parched my throat was. She held up a mug of water to my cracked lips. Certainly they’d been trying to keep water going down my throat, but that hadn’t stopped me from becoming dried out just the same. I drank deeply and fast, and immediately started to gag, coughing up the water quite violently. The woman didn’t seem the least bit put out, even though I hacked a bit of the water up onto her. She simply dabbed at the moisture with a cloth.
“Three days?” I said again.
She nodded. “You had a fever and chills something fierce. The guards said you froze at night and warmed during the day. That would be enough to do damage to even the hardiest of men.”
“So I’ve … proven.” It was a very weak attempt at humor, but she rewarded it with a game and encouraging smile. I found myself taking an immediate liking to this older wench.
“Am I … in a hospital somewhere … ?”
She shook her head, the smile never wavering. Either she was a woman of infinite patience or she found me amusing. Or possibly both. “No, you’re still in the palace.”
“And I’m still alive?” I made no effort to hide my surprise. “I would have thought the knights would have butchered me the moment I was helpless.”
For just a moment, there was a flicker of annoyance in her face, but then it passed. “Knights,” she said crisply, “do not do such things.”
“Pardon me for saying so, madam,” I said, with a touch of bitterness in my voice, “but I think I’m just a bit more versed in the realm of just what knights will and won’t do.”
“Indeed.” Her eyebrows arched slightly, but she made no comment. Instead she dipped the towel back into the water and reapplied it to my face. “Well … I wouldn’t dream of contradicting someone so worldly.”
“Worldly.” I laughed softly. “That, madam, I am not. I’ve seen very little of the world, really. And what I have seen, I’ve been on the bottom looking up.”
“It must hurt your neck, craning it so.”
I drew myself up a bit, propping my torso up with my elbows. “So … what is your name?”
“Beatrice. Bea, to my close friends and intimates. And you, I understand, are Apropos of Nothing.”
“My name is known. I’m not entirely sure whether that’s a good thing or not.”
“As with all things, Apropos, it has both its positives and negatives. Life is a double-edged sword.”
“That’s why I try to live it to the hilt.”
She laughed at that, rather heartily. It was not exactly a ladylike laugh. Then again, that wasn’t all that surprising, since a serving wench didn’t require the attitudes of a lady.
Her next words, however, completely startled me. “The king wishes to make you an offer.”
I looked at her askance. “Does he now.”
She nodded. “He has heard your tale.”
“And he’s going to attack Meander?”
“No. He is doubling the number of patrols, to keep an eye on Meander and prevent matters from getting too out of hand. But he is not going to strike against the Vagabond King.”
“Because he doesn’t give a damn about the life of one lousy whore.”
“That is one way to view it,” she admitted. “However, I am curious as to whether you’ve ever seen the result of a war with Meander.” When I shook my head, she continued, “Devastation. Entire towns laid waste. Meander’s consistent plan of attack is one predicated on total chaos, and much of that chaos spills over onto the helpless citizens of the land. I sympathize with you for your loss, Apropos. But is going to war over your mother worth the loss of lives that many other parents—and their children—will suffer?”
Her gentle voice, when putting the matter in that way, seemed to make eminent sense for some reason. There was none of the arrogance and preaching that was characteristic of the way that Justus had put it. Or maybe I was just viewing her with a lack of negative attitude.
“Well?” she urged.
Her statement hadn’t seemed to need a response, but since she pressed me for one, I found myself nodding regretfully. “I … suppose there’s nothing to be gained from further loss of life. But—”
“But you still burn with a desire for justice or vengeance.”
” ‘Or’? They’re the same thing, aren’t they?”
“That,” she said, “is a debate for another day.” She was sitting on a small chair and she placed the cloth back in the basin. Then she leaned forward, her fingers interlaced. “Am I correct in assuming that you have no plan for the rest of your life?”
“Well … nothing de
finite …” I admitted.
“The king is prepared to offer you a position as a squire.”
“A squire.” I looked at her askance. “That’s absurd. You’re mad, woman.”
“Am I?”
“Yes!” Shaking my head, I informed her, “Squires are sons of noblemen. Landed, titled individuals. I am Apropos of Nothing, as you so kindly reminded me. I stand to inherit nothing except whatever dirt I’m buried in when I die. No one is going to allow me to be a squire.”
“The king was impressed by what he heard and saw,” Bea said, appearing quite certain of herself. “You were brave and resourceful, standing up to Sir Justus and Sir Coreolis in a way that even the healthiest and stoutest of individuals would have hesitated to emulate. And you did so while you were ill.”
“The illness clouded my judgment. That is all.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you have potential that you do not suspect.”
My head thudded back onto the pillow. “Oh, gods, you sound like my mother. And what would be the purpose of my becoming a squire, even if such an impossible thing were, in fact, possible.”
“The purpose would be that you would be trained. You would learn the ways of true soldiers. You would—if you were clever, brave, and smart enough—rise through the ranks. You would acquire friends and influence all your own. You would, in time, become more than a match for the evil individual who deprived your mother of her life. And at that point, you would be able to seek him out yourself and take your vengeance upon him.”
“But you speak of a time years hence. Meander and his men could be anywhere by then.”
“That is true,” she allowed. “And that is indeed part of it. After all, if you track him down over land and water as a freelance, take him down and kill him … that would be so far removed from Isteria that it could not rebound against us. I admit, it would be a challenge for you. But only you can know: Are you the type who shrinks from a challenge, Apropos?”