“How did it feel when you saved the Prince’s life?” said Gillian.
Jack smiled properly for the first time. “Like I was finally doing what I was meant to do.”
“I can’t believe they tried to kill the Princess so openly,” said Fisher. “Somebody really wants a war.”
“I want some of those meatballs,” growled Chappie from down by her feet. “If you’re not going to finish those, pass them down.”
At the head table, Prince Richard and Princess Catherine sat side by side, ignoring the food in front of them in favour of staring into each other’s eyes and smiling big, silly smiles. The more than usually heavy security presence stood well back, to give the Royal couple as much privacy as they could. Even though it was clear to all the guards that they could have been standing there stark naked except for their swords, and the Prince and Princess wouldn’t have noticed a thing.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” said Catherine. “Just threw yourself in front of me. Took the knife, for me. Took my death for me. No one ever did anything like that for me before.”
“Trust me,” Richard said dryly, “I didn’t plan it. Just . . . did what I had to.”
“You did the right thing without even thinking about it,” said Catherine. “That’s even better! That is the mark of a true hero.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” said Richard. “Heroes are supposed to rescue the Princess without nearly getting themselves killed in the process.” He paused, thinking. “I couldn’t let you die. Just couldn’t.”
“Because our marriage is so important to the Peace agreement?” said Catherine.
“No. Because you’re important, to me.”
“Really?”
“Much to my surprise, yes,” said Richard. “All those years looking for the love of my life . . . and it’s an arranged marriage that brings her to me.”
“Well,” said Catherine, squeezing his hand firmly, “this changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“It does, doesn’t it?” said Richard.
• • •
Sat together in a beer tent, back at the Tourney, because they hadn’t been invited to the banquet, were Richard’s friends, Peter and Clarence. The soldier and the minstrel-in-training. They sat glumly at a rough wooden trestle table covered in food stains and beer spills, drinking overpriced ale from carved wooden tankards, not so much because they wanted to as because there was nothing else to do. The tent was pretty much empty. A single barmaid, in a traditional outfit that didn’t suit her, was manning the bar on her own and looking pretty pissed off about it. An old married couple were drinking cheap wine in the far corner and glaring silently at each other. And a failed champion was lying facedown in his own spilt beer, snoring loudly. The Grand Tourney was over, the stalls had closed, and most people had gone home. The only ones left . . . were the people drowning their sorrows.
Peter and Clarence had been drinking for quite a while. Peter was brooding, and Clarence was flushed, but otherwise no one could have told the difference. Peter had tried his luck in the sword-fighting contests and did quite well until he found himself facing a Bladesmaster from the Sorting Houses. Clarence had walked back and forth through the Tourney, watching all the fights, looking for material. And had been delighted to be right there at the front when Sir Kay was unhorsed and unmasked by the Sombre Warrior. He rushed off to bash out a first version of a new song while the events were still fresh in his mind . . . and as a result completely missed out on the knife-throwing assassin. He was still sulking. He just knew he was never going to live that down.
“It’s not really sword-fighting, in the circles,” said Peter. “The borders, that was real fighting. Not prancing about until someone gets a scratch and shouts First blood. Win or die! That was what it was all about on the border. I was a soldier! Fighting for my country. Not just showing off.”
“Everyone thinks they’re heroes, just because they can show off in a circle,” said Clarence. “The girls here won’t even look at you unless you’ve got more muscles than brains. Like to see one of those muscle-bound morons describe a battle in perfect iambic pentameter.”
“He’s not coming,” said Peter.
“What?” said Clarence, peering at him owlishly over his tankard.
“Richard!” said Peter. “He said he’d meet us here, in the beer tent. After the Tourney was over, and he wasn’t needed anymore. Said we’d have some good times together. But he isn’t here. No way he’s coming now.”
“Be fair,” said Clarence. “By all accounts, he came bloody close to dying.”
“That’s not it,” Peter said darkly. “It’s her. The Princess. He’s with her, now.”
“Well, yes,” said Clarence. “He’s marrying her tomorrow. I’ve got a stag night set up for tonight, and everything.”
“You really think he’s going to attend your stupid little party?” said Peter, slamming his tankard down hard on the table. “No . . . I saw this coming. He’s moved on! Left us behind. We . . . are the embarrassing friends, the bad influence of his past. He can’t go riding off on adventures anymore, not once he’s married. Got to settle down. Become . . . responsible. Respectable. She’ll soon have him under her thumb.”
“But . . . it looks like it’s going to be a happy marriage, at least,” said Clarence. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we be happy for him? For them?”
Peter scowled. He emptied his tankard and called for more ale. The barmaid slouched over and poured him a refill from her jug. She would have liked to tell him to keep the noise down, would have liked to have thrown the pair of them out, but they were friends of the Prince. So she couldn’t. Instead, she made a point of displaying a lot of cleavage as she bent over to fill the tankard, in the hope of a generous tip later on. Barmaiding didn’t pay much, so you had to make your money where you could. But the soldier didn’t even look at her, and the minstrel’s eyes were far away. So she gave the soldier short measure and went back to the bar.
“You’ll see,” said Peter, staring into his drink. “We’ll be left out of things from now on. Less and less invitations to join him, for . . . anything. Until he forgets about us completely. Taken up with all his new responsibilities, as a married man.”
“We’ve still got his stag night to finish organising,” Clarence said firmly. “And not much time left to do it in. I’ve been negotiating with several tavern sluts, of quite appalling reputation, to come along and warm things up. At really quite reasonable prices.”
Peter considered that for a moment. “How many tavern sluts?”
“Seven!”
“What? That’s not a party! Go for the full dozen!”
“You want them, you pay for them,” said Clarence.
Peter sniffed. “Bit short at the moment. Have to owe you.”
“Seven,” Clarence said firmly. “Two of them can dance, sort of, and one of them can do this amazing thing with her . . .”
“You really think the Prince is going to show up?” Peter said angrily. “After a second assassination attempt on the Princess? He won’t leave her side until they’re safely married.”
“But . . . it’s his stag!” said Clarence. “You can’t get married without a stag first! There’s a law . . .”
“Pretty sure there isn’t,” said Peter.
“I’m still going,” said Clarence determinedly. “You still going?”
“Of course I’m going! Wouldn’t miss a party with a dozen tavern sluts.”
“Seven.”
“Whatever.”
“I might be able to get a conjurer,” said Clarence. “Do you want a conjurer?”
“Not really, no.” Peter drank steadily from his tankard. “Always knew he’d move on. Leave us behind. Because he’s Royal . . . and we’re not. It’s the way of things. The Prince proves how responsible he is, by leaving his disreputable friends behind.”
“I’m not disreputable! I’m a minstrel!”
“I am!” Peter said loudly
. “I’m disreputable, I am, and proud of it!”
And then they both sat glumly together for a while, considering the way of things.
“No more invitations to the Royal table,” Clarence said despondently. “What am I going to do now, for good food and company and red-hot gossip? What am I going to do, Peter?”
“Get out in the world more?” said Peter. “Meet some girls who don’t want paying?”
“Oh shut up.”
“How are you sleeping?” Peter said suddenly, not looking at him.
“All right,” said Clarence. “You?”
“Badly,” said Peter. “Really badly.”
“Me too,” said Clarence. “I can’t stand the dark anymore. I have to have a night-light in my room every night, like a child.”
“It’s the Darkwood,” said Peter. “Only in the bloody thing for a minute, but it put its mark on us. Only a minute, but we’re never going to be free of it. We should never have followed Richard into the Darkwood.”
“He went in,” said Clarence. “He was our friend. What else could we do?”
“Where will you go now?” said Peter. “What will you do? Will you and I ever meet again, after the stag? I mean, what did we ever have in common? Apart from Prince Richard?”
• • •
In a room that wasn’t on any of the official Castle maps, because it kept moving about for security reasons, the First Minister of the Forest Parliament, Peregrine de Woodville, was having a very tense meeting with the Leader of the Loyal Opposition, Henry Wallace, the Seneschal (as the King’s representative), and Laurence Garner, head of Forest Castle security. It was his room. One of the few seriously magical rooms left over from the days when the Castle was a magical place, bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.
Like most spies and security agents, Laurence Garner was nothing much to look at. Certainly not anybody you’d look at a second time. Average height and weight, with an unmemorable face and a soft, polite voice. Most people in the Castle had no idea of his true status and function; they thought he was just another guard. Garner liked it that way. Always ready with a quiet word and a meaningless smile, there to smooth things over and move things along. Someone you could rely on to sort things out without making a fuss. Garner was part of every important event, sitting tucked away in some quiet corner, keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything. With a dozen armed guards under his personal command, ready to spring forward and do terrible things at his slightest nod. For now, the head of security sat quietly behind his desk, its top covered with overflowing piles of papers, waiting patiently for everyone to stop shouting at one another and quiet down so he could tell them what they needed to do.
“How the hell did that assassin get so close to the Princess?” demanded Peregrine. “Bad enough the Princess was almost poisoned at her own welcoming Banquet!”
“The knife-thrower didn’t know she was there to kill anyone, until she was activated!” said the Seneschal. “Do try to keep up, Peregrine . . .”
“In my opinion,” said Henry Wallace, but the other two just talked right over him.
“My men are everywhere,” said Garner, raising his voice just enough to cut through everyone else’s. “And they are doing everything they can. I’ve got guards covering every occupied room and corridor in this Castle, and even more blocking off access to the unoccupied areas. Every door and gate and opening is secure; no one gets in or out that I don’t know about, in advance. I’ve even got men with dogs working their way through the unoccupied areas, to make sure no one’s hiding out in there. I’ve got sorcerers watching over everything else. Not particularly high-class sorcerers, admittedly, but you have to work with what you’ve got. And yes, the Necromancer is doing his bit too. And no, you don’t get to question him. I don’t want him disturbed.”
“Anybody else?” said Henry Wallace, just to remind everyone he was still there.
“This is no time for humour, Henry!” said Peregrine.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” said Henry. “I was just trying to point out that if Garner needs more money, for more people, I’m sure we could get Parliament to approve it.”
“It’s not money—it’s manpower that’s the problem,” said Garner. “I’ve sent for reinforcements, so I can send men out into the surrounding woods . . . but I can’t see how they can get here before the wedding. As it is, my people are protecting the Castle from all the usual threats, but we are dealing with professional-level threats. According to the regrettably few high-level magic-users I have access to, it’s really hard to identify a killer when they don’t know that’s what they are. We need to find whoever it is who’s activating them. Someone within the Castle is a high-level Redhart agent! It’s the only answer. Someone really highly placed. If that monk hadn’t been as good as he was, we’d have a dead Prince on our hands.”
The First Minister stopped pacing up and down before Garner’s desk, so he could concentrate his best scowl on the head of security. “What do we know about this new group of champions we’ve let inside the Castle? Can we trust them? I mean, does anyone here think it’s just a coincidence that people from the Hero Academy have turned up at the Grand Tourney today and were right there on the scene when that little bitch nearly killed the Princess?”
“My people are doing background checks, even as we speak,” said Garner. “But I think we already know most of it. These people are celebrities in their own right. Hawk and Fisher used to run the Hero Academy, down in Lancre.”
“Troublemakers,” said Peregrine, and everybody nodded.
“And Jack Forester used to be the Walking Man, back in his younger days,” said Garner.
“Oh, bloody Hell,” said the Seneschal. “That’s all we needed. If I’d known, I’d never have let him inside the Castle.”
“Let’s try not to panic just yet,” said Garner. “Apparently, the man’s been living the contemplative life in a monastery for the past twenty years.” He looked thoughtfully at the Seneschal. “Guilty conscience, perhaps?”
“Who hasn’t?” said the Seneschal.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Garner. “These days he’s just an old monk leaning on a wooden staff.”
“An old monk who brought Prince Richard back to life from a wound that should have killed him!” said Peregrine. “How retired is that?”
“At least he’s not killing anyone,” said Garner.
“Yet,” said the Seneschal darkly.
“To further complicate things, the old warrior woman from the Sorting House, Gillian Forester, is his sister,” said Garner.
“Oh, this just gets better and better,” said Peregrine.
“Gillian Forester has spent most of her twilight years acting as a tutor for the Brotherhood of Steel,” said Garner. “Very professional, very well thought of.”
The Seneschal gave him a hard look. “You do know who Jack and Gillian Forester really are? Who their parents were?”
“Of course I know,” said Garner. “It’s my job to know everything that matters.”
“I don’t know,” said Peregrine. “What am I missing?”
“Jack and Gillian Forester are the son and daughter of Prince Rupert and Princess Julia,” said Garner.
“Oh, bloody hell!” said Peregrine. “That’s all we need!”
“They’re that Jack and Gillian?” said Henry. “Why are they here? Could they be here to stake a claim to the throne at last? Because of the Royal wedding?”
“Calm down, Henry, before you have an aneurysm,” said Peregrine. “They’re no threat to the throne. You never were very good at history, were you? They both publicly renounced any claim to the Forest throne years ago. That leaves them just . . . poor relations. Probably only here to attend the wedding and see if there’s any chance of a handout from the Royal coffers while everyone’s in a good mood.”
“I could have them thrown into a dungeon until this is all over,” Garner suggested quietly.
“The Wal
king Man? And a head tutor from a Sorting House?” said the Seneschal. “Yeah, right. Good luck with that one. I saw them at the Tourney; those two grey-haired coffin-dodgers could run rings around anyone you have. And do I really need to remind you . . . Yes, I see from the blank faces that I do. Gillian Forester is the mother of Raven the Necromancer.”
“What?” said Peregrine. “Why wasn’t I told this?”
“Damn right!” said Henry. “The Necromancer is the grandson of Rupert and Julia? We should have been told this the moment he started becoming so . . . prominent!”
“He now speaks with the King’s voice, and the King’s authority,” Garner said quietly.
“You mean he outranks you?” said the Seneschal.
Garner allowed himself a small smile. “In theory, perhaps. In practice . . . I think not. It’s my job to protect the King. From the folly of his own decisions, if necessary. But again, there’s no reason to get excited. Raven is still merely the son of someone who’s already publicly given up any claim they might have had to the throne. And he’s not exactly the type to allow any faction to use him as a figurehead, is he? The point is, if you even look like you’re thinking of bothering his mother, I can’t help feeling the Necromancer would probably become very upset. Do you really want to risk that just when we might need him most?”
“At least . . . try to keep this troublesome family away from everyone who matters,” said Peregrine.
“Prince Richard invited them in, as acclaimed champions,” said the Seneschal, “and since Jack Forester saved his life. Richard has already said the monk and his family can stay here as long as they like. They are Royal guests . . . with all the privileges that entails. Still, it’s a big Castle. I’m sure I can find somewhere suitably distant to put them.”
“Do it!” snapped Peregrine. He glared at Garner. “Find the Redhart agent. This . . . master of assassins. I don’t care how you do it, but I want him dead or in chains before the wedding!”
“Is it really too late to postpone the wedding?” said the Seneschal. “Just until we’ve found this agent?”
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