by Peter David
“But his troops have left him!”
“So we believe. But if we allow for a moment that it is, in fact, a trick … a deception … anything is possible. An ambush. Hidden reinforcements of which we knew nothing. Anything. I mean, Runcible does have a considerable reputation for craftiness. Certainly it must be based on something Maybe it’s precisely this kind of trickery, catching armies unaware and annihilating them, that has led to it.” Once more I shrugged. “But I probably imagine these things simply because I am but a lowly trooper, and not as experienced in the ways of war as others. Certainly if there was a chance that this was some sort of deception and we were riding into disaster, the captain or the king would have thought of it. I have overstepped myself. I apologize.”
With that, I took a few steps back as if the conversation was over, joining the rank and file once more.
Then I watched. And waited.
I did not have to wait long. Within less than two minutes, the lieutenant was at Grimmoir’s side, whispering into his ear. Grimmoir frowned, shaking his head at first, but then he started to look thoughtful as well. He did not, however, approach the king.
As for me … my temptation was to approach the king with a dagger in my hand. But I would probably get nowhere near him. And what if I did? What if I got within range of him and actually managed to, say, kill him? Aside from the fact that there would, in short order, be nothing left of me …
Well, actually, there was nothing aside from that fact. But it was a significant enough fact to give me decided pause.
We drew within range of the fort and once again a halt was called. Meander stepped down from the throne and moved beyond the edge of the forest, eyes wide with curiosity. Snow was continuing to descend even more rapidly. Naturally it was continuing to keep clear of us, but it was falling on the fort unabated.
And it was falling upon Runcible, who was in the midst of doing exactly what had been advertised. The runners had omitted the fact that Runcible was strumming a lyre, rather badly, with one hand, while continuing to shake a bell stick with the other. He wore the fool’s cap and the badly mismatched clothing, right down to the boots with the extended toes and the bells on the ends. His words drifted through the air to us, sung badly off key …
“And then there was Molly. The fattest damned whore. The slut who weighed seventeen stone. She swallowed poor Charlie. And asked for some more, Since she despised dining alone….”
“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Grimmoir.
“I’m not sure,” said Meander thoughtfully. “Since it’s a tavern song, I would surmise it makes more sense if you are drunk. Well, Captain … it appears Runcible has indeed gone quite mad.”
“Yes … it appears so,” said the captain slowly.
The way in which Grimmoir said that caught Meander’s attention. So, too, did mutterings from the rest of the rank and file. They were pushing forward to see the supposedly demented king, fully exposed and easy pickings, and they didn’t seem happy about it. I heard words like “crafty” and “too easy” and “annihilate” being bandied about. Words that I had been spreading, thoughts that I had been planting. Moreover, they were spreading back down the processional like a forest ablaze, and the uncomfortable murmurings were becoming louder.
I don’t know that Meander was especially concerned about insurrection among his men, but he was certainly curious over what the problem was. “Captain,” he said slowly, “is there some difficulty?”
“Well, sire … may I speak to you privately … ?”
“No,” Meander said firmly. “If there is a concern, it is apparently shared by many, and so should be heard by all. Speak your mind.”
Grimmoir didn’t appear happy about it, but he steeled himself and said, “Well, sire, some of the men … they’re thinking that this might be some sort of trap.”
“A trap, you say?” Meander looked back to Runcible, who had moved on to singing about a whore known as the Fabulous Funt. “How now?”
“Well, sire …” He glanced at his lieutenant and acknowledged others as well. “They seem to feel that it’s too easy. Runcible has earned a reputation for craftiness, not madness …”
“Unlike me,” Meander said thoughtfully.
“As you say, sire,” allowed Grimmoir. “And the reasoning is, which is the more likely: That a wise and crafty king has lost his mind? Or that a wise and crafty king is endeavoring to ensnare us in some sort of brilliant scheme? Trick us as he has tricked others?”
“And you think me capable of being tricked, Captain?”
The question sounded faintly dangerous, but Grimmoir, to his credit, stayed his course. “Anyone—even a king, such as yourself—can only make decisions based upon the quality of the information presented you by others. If that information is faulty …” He let the supposition trail off.
“Hmm,” Meander said thoughtfully, looking back at the king. “And you are saying that the information I have received … that Runcible is alone and helpless … may be incorrect.”
“There is that possibility, sire.”
“And he is but awaiting an attack in order to spring the trap.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And that if I send men in, they may well be slaughtered before they get within distance. And that, furthermore, it would signal the moment when additional troops of Meander’s are to come in from behind and cut us off, or some such.”
Grimmoir nodded. “All of those are possibilities, yes, sire.”
“On the other hand,” continued Meander, and he began to pace, “he may be taking these actions because he is, in fact, utterly helpless, and wants us to think that it is a trap. That he is hoping, praying, that what seems to be happening now would, in fact, happen. That we will be paralyzed, not by force of arms, but by force of reputation.”
“That is also possible, sire.”
“So what you are saying to me, Captain … is that this is either a painfully obvious last-ditch effort to save himself … or else a painfully obvious trap.”
“Aye, sire. That would seem to be the case.”
“There is a third possibility. Perhaps he is hoping that we will see him and laugh ourselves to death.”
“I … would not think that last to be terribly likely, sire,” Grimmoir said doubtfully.
“Nor I,” sighed Meander. “I’m merely trying to consider all the options.” He frowned a moment more and then said, “Archers …”
Three men wielding the largest composite bows I’d ever seen stepped forward. Meander studied the distance between himself and the castle. “About two hundred … two hundred fifty yards, would be my estimate. Well within range. Gentlemen … do you think you can hit that madman up there?”
“Aye, sire,” and there was a uniform nodding of heads.
My heart went into my throat.
“Very well. I’d like you to fire a volley—”
I started to take a step forward without the faintest idea of what I was going to say.
“—and see how close you can come … without hitting him,” finished Meander, and I released my breath in relief.
The archers stepped up, took aim, and let fly. I prayed that some capricious cross-gust of wind would not send one of the missiles off course and into the king’s head.
Two thudded just below him, and one to his immediate right. There was no way that Runcible could not have noticed them. The king didn’t flinch. He kept right on strumming the lyre and singing foolish ditties.
“Damn,” murmured Meander. “Well, that solved nothing. If he had jumped away from them, that would have been a sign that we were not dealing with a madman. But he did not react. So he is either indeed insane … or else willing to keep his cards so close to his vest that nothing short of fully committing ourselves to an attack will cause him to show his hand …”
“At which point it might be too late,” said Grimmoir.
For a long moment Meander was silent.
Then, slowly, he turned to
Grimmoir. “Captain,” he said, “I do not wish you to take insult at this … but you are not a very imaginative man. You are superb at following orders. You can execute any strategy that others have developed. But seeing the situation present here before you … it is simply not within your nature to come up with such a means of second-guessing a crafty opponent. I do not fault you for this; you have served me well without imagination, and will continue to do so in the future. I do not believe that this concern—that it may be a trap—was something you intuited. Who suggested it to you?”
“Sire, I—”
“Who?”
Grimmoir apparently knew better than to try and slip something past his king. He pointed at his lieutenant, who stepped forward and bowed.
Meander looked him up and down.
“I know you. You’re dumb as a post, as your father was, and his father before him. No offense.”
“None taken, Your Highness,” said the lieutenant, a bit bewildered.
“Who spoke to you then, eh?”
Suddenly feeling my privates shriveling to the size of peas, I tried to back slowly away without catching attention, but it was too late. Dumb as a post he might have been, but he also had a keen eye. “That man. There,” said the lieutenant, and pointed straight at me.
“You. Light infantryman. Come here,” said Meander in a voice that was not brooking any dissent.
Slowly I advanced. I was doing everything I could to keep my staff hidden within the folds of my cloak and obscuring my limp. I bowed. “Your servant, sire.”
“You speculated to the lieutenant here that Runcible might be setting a trap for us?”
I looked resolutely down. “I … may have done, aye, sire.”
“Quite an imagination you have.”
“I … simply do not wish to see you fall into a trap, Highness. I would have been remiss in not voicing my speculations. But they are just that.”
“And have you spoken to others of my troops about these concerns? Because there seems to be some uniform discord among the men, and I am endeavoring to trace the source.”
“Again, I … may have. If I have overstepped myself, sire, I humbly—”
“All opinions are welcome,” Meander said. “You are a curious fellow. I do not recall seeing you recently. What is your name?”
I said the first thing that came to mind. “Tacit, sire.”
“Tacit? Tacit One-Eye? I’ve heard of you a’right, but both eyes seem quite intact.”
“You have … heard of my brother, sire. Not me.”
“Your brother. Two brothers, both named Tacit?” he asked in polite bemusement.
My brain had completely frozen. “Our … parents were very poor, sire,” I said desperately.
“And could not afford more than one name for you?”
I had no reply to that.
Meander laughed softly. I was amazed how soft spoken the man was. “Well then, Tacit Two-Eye … your imaginings have given me much food for thought. Do I commit my forces into a foolish trap … or risk being foolish and walk away from it? What would you do, Tacit Two-Eye?”
I gathered my nerve and looked straight into his face. He still looked quite tired, as if the prolonged discussion was dispiriting somehow. “If I were to attack, sire … and it was a trap … I would be a laughingstock, presuming that I survived. If I walked away … and it was not a trap … I would never know otherwise. Then again … no one is expected to know everything. So not knowing something for sure that leaves us all alive … seems to me preferable to knowing something for sure that could leave us all dead.”
“And if he truly is helpless and this is all a façade? I am letting a potential captive depart unharmed.”
“Not unharmed, sire. He will always know the depths of humiliation to which he had to resort just to survive.”
For no reason I could understand, that seemed to catch Meander’s attention. “That … can be a very terrible thing indeed,” he said, sounding very distant. “A very terrible punishment for anyone to carry with them … much less a king.”
The silence then seemed to drag unto infinity. The only noise to be heard was the distant strumming of the lyre and the wretched singing voice of Runcible.
“Captain,” Meander said finally. “Sometimes the game is simply not worth rolling the dice. We are departing.”
I couldn’t believe it. My legs went weak and I supported myself on my staff to stop from keeling over. It had worked. Son of a bitch, it had worked. Now all I had to do was wait until a propitious moment, fade back into the woods and double back …
Or else … or else I could stay with the troops for a while … wait for an unguarded time … and then kill Meander for what he’d done to my mother … now wouldn’t that be just too, too …
“Apropos!”
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, as I heard the last voice I would have wanted to hear just then.
Chapter 26
I caught myself just before I started to turn in response to my name. Such an action would definitely be the last thing I’d want to do in that circumstance. And I did everything I could to hide my disbelief upon hearing that voice.
He stomped toward me, as big and burly and ugly as he’d been when I’d first met him and he’d been about to cut me in half with his sword. “What are you doing here? What is he doing here?” And he whirled to face Meander. “What has he been saying to you?”
“What did you call him, Sir Coreolis?” Meander asked.
“Apropos! This is the pissant squire I told the forest men to be on the lookout for! I knew if anyone was apt to try and bolt for it, it would be this little coward.” Coreolis looked at me with disdain. “Well? Did you think you’d get away with it, you fear-crazed weasel? Did you? Speak up?”
Keeping the quavering out of my voice as best I could, I said politely, “My apologies, sir … have we met?”
“Have we—?” I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. “Damn you! I should have simply killed you in your sleep! But no, I had to decide that you weren’t worth the trouble! More fool I! And more fool you, Meander, for listening to him!”
“Have a care, good sir knight,” Meander said with clear danger in his voice. “I am still a king, and will not brook such insolence.”
Quickly realizing that he’d overstepped himself, Coreolis bowed. “My apologies, Highness. I let my rage carry me … rage directed not at you, but at this little cretin!” and he pointed a trembling finger at me.
“You speak of Tacit?”
“Tacit! Tacit lies dead with a brace of arrows in him! I speak of this creature, Apropos of Nothing, who serves Runcible and has the eye of Runcible’s daughter.”
“Is that a fact?” inquired Meander, turning to me.
“Sire,” I said as patiently as I could, as if Coreolis was a lunatic whom I did not want to offend for reasons of personal safety, “if the good knight claims my brother is dead … I am … I am taken aback, milord. Grief-stricken. I will need time to deal with his loss. As for the rest … I am not certain what sort of madness has embraced him …”
“Madness!” bellowed Coreolis. “The only madness is that you’re all standing here when I’ve delivered Runcible to you on a silver platter! He’s—” He frowned. “What’s that damned singing?”
He looked to the point of origin of the singing and his eyes widened. “Is … is that … ?”
“Aye. Your king, on a silver platter,” said Meander. “Except we believe that it is in fact trickery. A clever plan to entrap us. Which would mean, sir knight, that either you are also tricked by a king who suspected your treachery … or else you are in on it with him and have endeavored to lead us into an attack. Neither possibility bodes well for you.”
“Don’t you see!” howled Coreolis, face purpling, looking as if he was on the verge of a breakdown. “The only trickery here is on the part of Apropos …”
“Tacit,” I quietly corrected him.
“Damn you and your Tacit!” He
yanked out his sword, brandishing it fiercely. “I know who you are!”
“That makes two of us.” I was feeling that same sense of empowerment that I had so long ago, what seemed a lifetime ago, when my attitude had sent Sir Justus into fits of fury. I, the lowborn son of a whore, was giving a highborn knight convulsions while simultaneously maintaining my sangfroid.
Meander regarded me thoughtfully. “Well. We seem to have a disagreement as to your identity. And who you are will weigh rather heavily into what is to be done. Tell me, young sir … have you any here who can vouch for you? Anyone of long standing in my ranks who knows you to be Tacit, rather than this ‘Apropos’ who seems to have Sir Coreolis so overwrought?”
Dead silence. I could hear nothing save the snow, and the distant howling of the wind. It suddenly seemed much, much colder, with more ice coming in. Overhead the branches were becoming thick and encrusted with frozen coatings. I looked to Grimmoir, to the lieutenant, to any of the men that I’d spoken to in hopes that somehow they would misremember and think that I had been around for quite some time. Nothing. No responses. I felt my blood running as cold as the ice forming overhead.
And then a female voice floated through the stillness.
“Tacit, my love … I thought you would never get here.”
I couldn’t believe it. Could not believe it.
Before she said another word, before she pulled back the gray hood to reveal her features, I knew who it was. The crowd of soldiers parted for her, as if they were afraid to have her come into any sort of contact with them. If she was put off by that, she didn’t show it.
I should have known. A weatherweaver controlling the environment. I should have damned well known.
“Hello, Sharee,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as I could.
Coreolis had gone completely ashen. Sharee didn’t even bother to glance in his direction. Instead she walked up to me and draped an arm around the back of my neck. “You certainly took your time in arriving,” she said with a voice like a winter’s sigh. She pulled me to her and kissed me. Her lips were like frost; I nearly stuck to her.