A Cruel Tale

by Alex Sapegin

“I’ll bet you anything that messenger’s here for our souls.”

  “Oh yeah. I won’t take that bet—I’ll lose my money.”

  “You’re so greedy!”

  “I am what I am.”

  Timur was right. The boy was a helpless pawn in the service of the chancellery of His Royal Highness. In a perfectly delivered speech, he called the “heroes” to the blackboard. Accompanied by the sound of the lengthy standing ovation from the bookworms and audience members, and the broad smiles by Etran and the artifact professor, master grall Toro, Rigaud and Timur received two sealed envelopes containing invitations to the royal summer residence for the welcome party upon the occasion of the arrival of High Prince Miduel, Lord of the Rauu, in Orten. The event would take place in two days. There, at the same party, the young officers would receive their awards from the hands of King Gil II himself. They should wear their dress uniforms. Rigaud could show up in his civilian’s suit, but it would be preferable for him to put on his army jacket with all its patches and regalia. It was a military award, after all, and even though the roi-dert had been grounded, it would still be a sign of respect to wear the uniform. They were allowed to invite one guest each to the welcome party. They had permission to miss their duties in the training regiments. Upon concluding his speech, the messenger once again congratulated the young men on the awards they had earned and made his exit.

  “Who are you going to invite?” Rigaud asked, looking at the invitation and check for a thousand pounds. His Highness had taken care to see that the invitees to the fête would be dressed in their best and could buy dresses and jewelry for their guests. It wasn’t every day you got to attend a state reception.

  “No one,” Timur snapped. “Sorry, Marika,” he bowed courteously to the girl, threw a notebook with notes into his bag, and went to the door.

  “Hey…,” grall Toro interrupted him. “The lecture’s not over yet.”

  “I have an order to appear immediately at the unit, from the general,” Timur lied, showing the master his coveted envelope.

  “Alright,” the bewildered professor answered, “you’re free to go.” Toro was no mentalist, a trait many bookworms took advantage of.

  ***

  Half the day he wandered aimlessly about the city. He didn’t feel like going back to the School. Being famous has a bitter aftertaste. Fake smiles, ingratiating glances, girls ready for anything with their looks like hungry predators having laid their traps…. It was really great the Marika was wearing a large pendant with a chunk of the statue of Hel and constant protection; otherwise, she would have given in to the curses and envy long ago. How’d she managed to catch such a stallion? Rigaud used to be on the prowl for female attention, and now how she’s magically pruned him, the lousy girl. One word and he’s at her beck and call.

  Finding himself starting to go weak in the knees, Timur remembered that he had to sew his dress uniform and polish his boots. Wandering here and there about the little side streets, he found a tailor shop. “Danast—master tailor,” the signage read. “Not a cheap establishment,” Timur thought to himself examining the fancy dress in the window. He stood outside the strong oak door for a few seconds, then he crossed the threshold.

  “Hello. What can I do for you, sir?” the shop worker came out of the back, greeted him politely and respectfully bowed his head.

  “Hello,” Timur stopped near the mannequin, which was dressed in a chic ballroom gown. “I’d like to order a job from master Danast—sewing my dress uniform.”

  “I’m sorry, the master doesn’t work with military uniforms,” the shop worker said glancing at the young officer. He wasn’t their kind of client—his boots were worn, and his jacket was crumpled. They wouldn’t make any money off this man. The client noticed the shop worker looking at him through the reflection in the window. He chuckled: he’s judging me by my clothes. You’re in for a surprise, tailor scum.

  “You’ve misunderstood me. I need a dress uniform made from the very best fabric. I’ll be grateful to your establishment if you could correct my shoes to match the uniform.”

  A curtain wiggled behind the shop worker. Someone was taking interest in the conversation.

  “That does change things. The senior assistant can take your order. As I said, the master doesn’t sew uniforms.”

  “What a shame. Apparently, I’ll have to go to another master. I can’t show up at a royal welcoming party in clothes made by a senior assistant. Sorry for taking your time.” Timur clicked his heels and turned his back on the shop worker.

  “Two hundred golden pounds,” he heard a cracked voice from behind him.

  “Two hundred pounds is an insane price for a suit, a total rip-off,” Timur thought, turned around, and met the gaze of a maroon-haired dwarf. “Final offer,” the short-stack announced.

  “Let’s shake on it,” said the guy getting ripped off. He turned to the counter and shook the master’s large hand. No need to be thrifty; he was spending the king’s money. The deal was sealed. “You must complete my order by tomorrow evening—or I’ll turn my chucker on you.”

  The mountain-dweller’s hair flashed and sparkled blindingly.

  “That’s not possible!” the dwarf jumped up in alarm.

  “You named your price. You said no bargaining. I agreed to your conditions, and now you’re saying it’s impossible to complete my order? Are you going back on our deal?”

  “No,” the dwarf answered dismally. The client had trapped him. Going back on a deal already made would mean losing his good reputation, and reputation was something one couldn’t restore later on. His clients would find another tailor. No one would want their garments sewn by ashamed master. And he looks like just a kid….

  “Sit down, I’ll take your measurements.”

  “I asked about boots.”

  “One hundred pounds.”

  “Fine. You understand, of course, that the order must be done to a T and ready when the suit is.”

  The dwarf gnashed his teeth.

  Thirty minutes later, full of “free” invigohol, and having lightened his purse by three hundred pounds, Timur left the hospitable establishment. They had promised to deliver the uniform and boots right to the dormitory. It was worth a little extra effort for the price he paid. It was crazy—simple peasants thought of twenty pounds as a huge amount of money, and he had given up ten times more, just for some clothes, cloth he would probably wear very seldom. What was the world coming to?

  In the meantime, the evening had come. The magical lanterns that lined the avenues and park trails lit up. It seemed the city had put on its dress uniform. Timur sat for a while in the summer restoration on the shore of the man-made lake, listened to the music and enjoyed the exquisite cuisine. The waiters clamored around the promising customer. The women at the neighboring tables shot him glances, but the young officer remained indifferent to their feminine charms. Let them think what they want. I don’t care. It’s a nice night. I think I’ll walk back to the dorm….

  ***

  The park was empty. What idiot would run around the trails with lead weights on his feet and a heavy bag on his shoulders in a dank fog? It was morning—the time for the last dreams, not for senseless running around. Rigaud stopped Timur and tossed him the training sword made of raw iron:

  “Here. We’ll work on our low stances, and then you’ll show what you’re made of on the attack. Move!” The skinny guy and Marika did not ask any questions about where he’d been all day yesterday. A man sometimes needs to be alone. His friends perfectly understood his mood.

  “That’s enough,” Rigaud stopped the practice. “If you stick your leg out, your leg’s going to get it. If you lean forward, you lose balance and might take a slanting blow. Don’t take your hand to the side; we’re not working with shields, so the left side is open to attack by the enemy. A quick puncture—and there’ll be one more dead person. Do you want to become a zombie? No? En guard!”

  Skinny and toned with lean muscle all over, Rigau
d wasn’t cutting his friend any slack. Their practices were as rough as can be. Mistakes were immediately punished by would-be fatal punctures and strikes, after which you wouldn’t get up again in a real battle. Every day the former second-in-saddle committed fewer and fewer goof-ups, but he still had a very long way to go to become a real swordsman.

  “That’s it,” Rigaud spit out. “Let’s get off the field.”

  They gathered their equipment and went to the dorm. Timur didn’t take off his heavy anklets and belt. He would take them off at home.

  About a hundred yards from their building, a dozen figures stepped out from the fog with traveling bags on their shoulders. The closer the friends got to the figures, the clearer it became that the Rauu had arrived at the School. Apparently, the guests from the Marble Mountains had arrived through the School portal, since there was still more than half an hour before the gates would open. The elves looked the young humans up and down. Their eyes showed sincere respect. They saw the weights hung all over their bodies. The men had obviously been training for over an hour. Not everyone could force himself to get up at such an early hour and go out in the cold fog. Timur suddenly threw his equipment down on the ground and butted into the group of female elves.

  “Ow, watch where you’re stepping!” one beauty piped up. He had accidentally stepped on her toe.

  “Lubayel!”

  One of the girls turned around, dropped her bag from her shoulder, and ran to meet him.

  “Timur!” she squeaked, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips.

  The Icicle spectators smiled at the scene. Rigaud shook his head and whistled subtly. Wow, the man of few words, you’ve really caught me by surprise!

  Tantre. Orten. Lailat…

  His Highness bowed to the chancellor and quietly asked:

  “What do you think of our dragon friend’s fellows?”

  “Interesting young men. They’ve got some talent. It would be worth paying them some mind. Drang wasn’t exaggerating when he told us about them,” Garad answered, watching the handsome pair, a human and an elf woman momentarily frozen in the dance step. “Count Soto’s escapades never cease to amaze. And where did he get a uniform of that caliber and such a beautiful partner? Olmar can take offense if he likes, but next to the young man’s, his uniform just doesn’t measure up, or it looks like a poor relative’s tunic!” The king laughed.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I realize what you’re talking about. I don’t think the elf girl is here on assignment from Miduel. You can just tell by the way their eyes sparkle when they look at one another. And I’ll tell you something else: the guys have done a great job rising to the occasion. I was watching them during the award ceremony, and I observed the looks they gave you and Miduel. Soto’s aura was even and calm, which means he has extreme self-control. When you began speaking about their heroism, a little glint ran over it, as if he’d mentally made a wry face. He’s indifferent to rewards and gifted estates in Lailat. They don’t want to become pawns in a political game.”

  “They’re still just boys!”

  “If you could see the illusiogram of the second medal recipient after the battle of Ronmir, you wouldn’t be so dismissive.”

  Gil II leaned back on the throne, which was mounted on a low platform, and thought. Was he playing games? Yes. The whole of life is a game. Children have toys and games that are small. Older people play games in the yard and outside. For people with power, the playground grows to the size of the city, province, and country. In the hands of people with great power, the world itself is the toy. It seems that the world was sick of being played with like a doll. He decided to play the role of a doll-maker and play with people’s fates for a bit. After games like that cities were reduced to ashes….

  “Your Majesty! Targ take it! Get Garad over here,” violating all norms, Drang’s voice came from the communicator amulet sewn into His Highness’ collar, which did not signal anything pleasant for Garad.

  Not turning his head, the king directed his eyes only towards the darkened niche on the right of the room. There stood the main state spy. Gil looked at the chancellor and closed his eyes. Garad walked away from the throne, crossed a third of the room slowly in a laid-back manner, loitered among the courtiers for three or four minutes, and then came to a stop beside the head of the Secret Chancellery.

  “Calm down, Gil, it’s okay. Smile, smile, Targ take you,” the monarch mentally soothed himself. The pallor on the chancellor’s face as he returned was not reassuring. What now? Judging by Garad’s confused expression, nothing good. The old elf too began to fidget on his throne. What, not a comfy pillow? Or had he too been informed of something through a whisper from the amulet? The High Prince’s grandson approached the throne. The relatives were conversing earnestly about something, and Beriem slipped unnoticed from the room. This was getting interesting.

  “Code ‘double,’” the tiny magical amulet piped up.

  It was as if someone had pulled the very core out of the king. It seemed to him he was moving down the steps of the platform, and the throne was crumbling into dust. The fun of the official reception faded as if covered with a dark veil. This was bad.

  Shaking his head, hiding the worry that had taken hold of him behind a wide, cordial smile, His Majesty stood up from the throne and descended the platform. A crowd of nobles immediately descended on him. The monarch had finally deigned to socialize with his subjects!

  Curtsies, bows, nude, powdered shoulders, deep décolletés, ingratiating (and not very) glances. A couple of times he sensed hatred directed at his back. Mm-hmm. I have to remember to remind Drang to have his people shake information out of everyone here. His Highness was not a mage, but that spark of a “whisperer” which was discovered in him by his tutors was developed through long and rigorous training. Someone hated him with all his (or her) heart and soul, but who? He mustn’t leave survivors or revenge-hungry relatives of those who were supposed to be executed for participation in the revolt. If he let his guard down even a little, he could be sent to the Twins’ court. It might be poison in his wine. The King snickered. Drang would have his work cut out for him.

  Snapping out of his gloomy train of thought, the king scanned the room and all those in it. He saw the ladies’ intricate hairstyles and revealing dresses and the men’s austere suits, mixed with frequent spots of military uniforms, the glitter of decorations and jewelry; people fussing about. Gil never liked noisy gatherings. From his earliest childhood, the future monarch preferred quiet pastimes with a book in hand. But whoever asked a king what he preferred? Preferences were one thing, but the life of the heir to the throne was something else entirely.

  ***

  His Highness, Olmed the I, Olmed the Swift, king of Tantre, kept his son close, ruling over him with an iron fist. At ten years old, the king’s son was sent incognito to be raised in the Army Infantry Corps for sons of the nobility. “We’ll see what you make of yourself,” his father had said, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Don’t even think of blabbing about your origin, or else….” The monarch’s dark brown eyes flashed with rage.

  The prince didn’t answer, no matter how hard it was to keep silent. Kitchen duty and a lashing for minor transgressions, and a cold lock-up for serious misconduct.

  The teachers and teaching style at the Corps were most strict. Right from the start, the young page had no time for anything at all except class and homework. He didn’t complain when his father asked him about his studies during the short scheduled vacation. With a helping he had from the old king, people started calling Gil “Soft Spoken” when out of earshot. What was there to tell if the Corps was flooded with members of the secret service and detailed daily reports of the young cadet’s life were placed on the king’s desk? Gil was never stupid or naive. Excellent grades for time management and mastery of the martial arts made the strict father glad. Gil met Garad during their time in the Corps. The active and mischievous
Garad was a kind of pole, pulling the cadets towards him. A storyteller and a brawler, he took the quiet man under his wing. Often they fought back to back. The Corps leaders always looked the other way when it came to fights between the cadets, as long as they didn’t involve magic or steel. The young men needed to let off steam, so let them. As long as they didn’t maim on another. On the other hand, who took whom under his wing was a serious question. The mischief they made together….

  Gil turned eighteen, but no one celebrated his birthday. A week before the holiday, Olmed I the Swift died. It was a stupid way to die, no other way to put it. His father rode out to the shooting range where the military alchemists were testing some sort of non-magical explosives. The power of the blow exceeded all expectations. The magical shields instantly dissolved and the stone bunkers were blown apart like straw houses, burying the alchemists, the king, the generals, and the entire crowd gathered there that day under the rubble. Personal defense amulets saved no one. Rockslides up in the mountains resulted from the quaking of the earth from the blast. The riverbed of the river flowing through the shooting range overflowed. The people covered by the stones choked out their last breaths….

  As per tradition, the crown was laid upon the young king’s brow in the central Temple of the Twins one month after the old monarch’s funeral. Along with the crown, Gil inherited a huge pit of vipers at the throne. His father’s confidants and simply the richest people of the kingdom thought that they could control the Soft Spoken…. He gave them the illusion that this was indeed the case. The inexperienced king nodded to one, smiled at another, and with a smart look listened to the advice of a third. He hated most of his father’s courtiers with every fiber of his being. They had become vultures, tearing the country apart and increasing their personal gain. Those who were truly sorry and cared about the state were pushed back into the last rows and defamed backwards, forwards and sideways. He played the puppet. And, in complete secrecy, the seemingly cast-off friends of the former page boy, under the leadership of Garad and the slippery fifth-year student of the Kion Academy of Magic, Drang, were surreptitiously placing anonymous letters among the dissenting camps and spreading various rumors. The young pages were recruiting newcomers to the party of the king from among the nobles, the former strongmen of this world who had fallen into disgrace, who’d been pushed to the background of politics.