Sagaria

by John Dahlgren

  “Yes, let me perform the introductions.” She seemed mollified by his welcome. “This handsome cavalier is Sir Tombin Quackford, the Frogly Knight. He displayed enormous bravery and great strategic cunning in saving me from becoming the roasted supper of a worg.”

  King Fungfari gasped. It was a doughty warrior indeed who would take on a worg. Sir Tombin made an elegant bow in his direction, taking off his ostentatious hat and sweeping its feather across the mosaic.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said the King. “You have my royal gratitude for saving the life of my cherished daughter, Permadita.”

  “Perima,” hissed a footman from behind his ear. It was one of the stated jobs of Fungfari’s courtiers and servants to compensate for his little moments of absentmindedness.

  “Perima, I meant to say. Permadita is an affectionate pet name I often call her in my heart,” said the king, recovering quickly.

  The girl’s eyes had become slits, but she persevered anyway. “The smallest of my friends, the one with the … um, whiskers is named Flip. He too was fearless in helping to deliver me from the monster’s vile clutches.”

  The furry creature put his head and shoulders over the lip of the boy’s pocket and fix the monarch with a beady and, Fungfari decided, not altogether friendly stare. “Pleased to meet you,” it piped in an insincere fashion. He wondered if it would fit into a standard mousetrap or if he’d have to get the court engineers to cobble together an especially large one.

  “And finally,” his daughter was saying with what appeared to be a blush, “here is Sagandran, a boy who’s come all the way from the Earthworld to try to rescue his grandpa from kidnapers believed to be acting in the service of the Shadow Master!”

  The boy, matching Permadita’s – Perima’s! – shy blushes, took a step forward and gave a little bob of his head that was obviously an uncouth version of a bow.

  “The Shadow Master, eh?” said the King. “I’ve just been reading all about him. Ghastly scoundrel, don’t you think?”

  “Worse than that, Your Majesty,” mumbled the boy.

  “Ah, indeed. Very true. A most unpleasant piece of work. Well, one can only hope that they apprehend him with good speed and administer a touch of the justice he so richly deserves.”

  The boy Sagandran looked incredulous. “‘They’? Surely it’s the duty of everyb—”

  “We can talk further about the Shadow Master later, Sagandran,” said the princess hastily. “I’m sure my father will be only too grateful to learn how he might better repel the threat of the accursed invader.”

  “Ah, yes, quite so,” harrumphed Fungfari. The last thing he wanted was for these scruffs to hang around lowering the tone of his palace. Also, even worse, their very presence might well act as a sort of magnet for the attentions of the Shadow Master. If there was one thing Fungfari could do without, it was the descent of a bloodthirsty army of demonic ghouls upon his kingdom.

  “I take it that you must be weary from your long journey and your many hair-raising escapades. I will have a room prepared for you so that you can take some rest.” He snapped his fingers and one of the two footmen scurried away. “I’m sure that the three of you must have urgent business elsewhere if you’re hoping to, ahem, counter the Shadow Master, so I will not detain you here at the Mattanese court longer than you desire.”

  “Can’t we at least take a look at the city first?” squeaked the horrible little whiskered one.

  “Oh, there’s little to see here in our humble burg,” said Fungfari with an attempt at casual offhandedness. He produced what he intended as a modest, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m sure you would be bored out of your minds in no time.”

  “It looked pretty interesting as we were coming through,” persisted the irritating creature. Fungfari wished someone would step on it – anything to silence its twittering little voice.

  “Yes, Daddy,” said Perima, who obviously had never been told that it was the function of princesses to be seen but not heard. “Do let me show my friends around Mattani for a while, oh do! After all, I wouldn’t be here at all unless they’d risked their lives to save mine. Surely we owe them all the courtesy in the world for that? A grand ceremonial feast, perhaps, or even a regal ball.”

  Her father regarded her in dismay. Hadn’t the blasted girl any idea how much courtly minstrels cost? Actually, Fungfari was somewhat hazy about the details, but he’d been reliably informed that the price of even a gavotte was a pretty penny, and for an all-out minuet it was utterly outrageous.

  “That will not be necessary, Princess,” said Sir Tombin gallantly. “We are honored enough that we have been able to come to your youthful aid when it was most needed.”

  Perima squinted at him. “Just because we’re here in Daddy’s palace doesn’t mean that you have to go all respectful on me.”

  “Really, Perima—” began the boy, reaching for her arm.

  “Oh, all right then, but can’t you stay here for just a little while at least? Or,” she said brightening, “even better, can’t you take me with you? You’ve seen for yourselves what a bold adventurer I can be. This court isn’t the place for a free spirit like myself.”

  The boy called Sagandran looked as if he wholeheartedly agreed, but Sir Tombin was more skeptical.

  “Perima, my dear, I’m afraid that decision must be left to your father.”

  She stamped her foot. “I am a Princess Royal of proud Mattani,” she declared, the echoes of her voice ringing away around the great Hall of Reception. She drew herself up to her full height, which seemed taller than it should have been. “You, sir, are merely a Frogly Knight.”

  Sir Tombin said not a word in reply, but the look he gave her was enough to make her deflate as suddenly as she had become haughty.

  “I … I didn’t mean that, darling Quackie.”

  The Frogly Knight winced, but Fungfari could see that the apology had been accepted.

  If pressed, the King might have admitted that it didn’t really concern him one way or another whether this girl Perima lived or died. On the other hand, there was the matter of his dignity and that of his court and kingdom. It would not do if his direct royal commands were to be publicly disregarded, most particularly by a mere slip of a lass. Order would crumble into chaos. The commoners would get ideas above their station. The veneration for the monarchy would suffer.

  “That’s enough, young lady,” he barked. “Go to your room this instant.”

  She showed no sign of moving and just glared at him defiantly.

  The king gestured and two of the armed men stepped forward.

  “Take my daughter to her room.”

  One on either side, they seized her arms. Turning her head, she slowly subjected the two men, one after the other, to a sneer of utmost contempt. Fungfari could witness the effect on them.

  “Unhand me,” she cried, with that imperious tone back in her voice again. “I shall go to my room of my own volition.”

  She marched to the foot of the stairway, the two guards following her with obvious reluctance, then she turned to regard her father with an awful gaze.

  “You shall regret this.”

  Then she was gone with as much of a flounce as her tattered frock would allow.

  The giant frog and the dimwitted youth gaped at each other.

  Fungfari tried to keep his voice reasonable. “As you can see, I am a very busy man. A very busy man indeed. Much as I would like to play the courtly host to my daughter’s saviors, I am afraid that is not possible for me. However, I will have a guard show you to your room. My servants must have finished preparing it by now.”

  “You sure we can’t get shown around the city?” chirped the verminous specimen from the boy’s pocket. “I’m the great Adventurer Extraordinaire, you know, and I’d really, really like to—”

  Sir Tombin raised a hand to quell the interjection.

  “Your Majesty is most generous,” he said with another of those deep, flamboyant bows.

  “Gu
ard,” called the king.

  The guard Fungfari had summoned possessed a face like a boulder-strewn hillside and seemed to have no interest at all in conversation. After a few of their polite questions had gone unanswered, Sir Tombin and Sagandran gave up getting the man to speak and just followed as he led them through a bewildering maze of passageways. Sagandran had been rather unimpressed by the palace from the outside – it had seemed somehow poky and mean – but he had to admit that its interior was truly magnificent. The corridors were resplendent with tapestries, paintings and what were evidently tastefully chosen antiquities. It was Sagandran’s guess that King Fungfari had very little hand in the decoration of his court. Back in the forest Perima had implied the womenfolk did all the work around here, and Sagandran regarded the elegant opulence of their surroundings as proof of her assertion.

  He glanced at Sir Tombin, who nodded at him. The time for discussion of King Fungfari’s treatment of them, and especially of his daughter, was not now – not with the guard so near. The man might be unwilling to speak, but he could most assuredly listen.

  Flip was less inhibited. “That Fungfari’s a rotten old—”

  Sagandran clamped a hand over his little friend’s mouth so that the rest of the sentence was mercifully no more than a series of stifled squeaks.

  They came to a solid-looking door, and the guard drew out an imposing bunch of keys. He selected one and fitted it to the lock.

  Sagandran released his grip on Flip’s face.

  “… and he’s fat!”

  The guard’s face remained carefully impassive as he gestured for them to enter the room. The door closed ponderously behind them, and the thud of it shutting was followed by the distinctive click of a lock being turned.

  Sagandran grabbed the handle and struggled with it, but the door would not open.

  “Locked,” said Flip gloomily. “What else would you expect from such a—”

  “We take your point, Master Flip,” said Sir Tombin with finality.

  Sagandran was disbelieving. “Why in the world would they want to lock us in?”

  Sir Tombin rubbed his brow wearily. Sagandran could see for the first time that his companion was desperately tired.

  “To be honest with you, Sagandran, I expected a reception something like this. The people of Mattani are renowned for their distrust of strangers, and none more so than their king – who is, as you so rightly observed, Master Flip, a knave of the most abject scurviness. I can only imagine he instructed his guard to confine us to our quarters for fear that we might abscond with the silverware.”

  Sagandran grinned despite himself. “A knave of the most abject scurviness,” he said. “I like it.”

  “It is not, I confess, my coinage. It is a frequent description of our host. There are more graphic descriptions that are even more commonly used, but you are too youthful to hear them.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you say something of that sort about a monarch,” Sagandran continued. “You being someone who’s bought into this whole aristocratic thing, and all. You’re a knight and he’s a king. Aren’t you supposed to hold kings in high regard?”

  “There are,” responded Sir Tombin heavily, “kings and there are kings. King Fungfari is, I’m afraid, one of the latter.”

  Sagandran wasn’t sure of the sense of this, but he was too tired and hungry to make an issue out of it. He looked around the chamber they’d been allocated, and had to admit it could have been worse. A whole lot worse. The room was generously proportioned, and the splendor of the furnishings outside continued here. There were two large four poster beds, and on a curved-legged table at the foot of one, sat a tray laden with plates, goblets, bottles and a casserole dish. Gingerly, Sagandran lifted the hot lid of the casserole and a comforting puff of steam arose.

  An open door in the corner presumably led to a bathroom. In the opposite wall, there were two tall windows, both barred. The Mattanese were serious about keeping their guests confined.

  “I’m famished,” said Sagandran.

  “I am desirous to partake in some viands myself,” acknowledged Sir Tombin.

  “Me too,” added Flip. “They got any nuts?”

  A surprisingly short time later, the food had been demolished and the three friends were sitting on the floor at the end of the other bed.

  Sagandran patted his tummy, feeling that, locked in or not, all was right with the world. The stew had been delicious, full of succulent chunks of some unidentifiable meat and squishy bits of vegetable, all in a rich, dark brown sauce. The content of the bottles had proven to be a red-black fruit juice of some kind, rather astringent on first tasting, but becoming steadily more pleasant to the palate thereafter. Sir Tombin had recommended that Sagandran be cautious how much he drank, but had not explained why.

  Flip, who found no nuts but had feasted instead on a little dish of dried fruit that had been on the tray, yawned loudly. “That’s it. I’m finished for the day. Help me up onto the bed, will you, Sagandran, there’s a good fellow. Time for me to get some sleep.”

  “I thought you said that an Adventurer Extraordinaire didn’t need as much sleep as the rest of us,” said Sagandran in an inexplicably thick voice as he scooped Flip up off the floor and deposited him on a puffy, well-stuffed pillow.

  “I don’t, but I must have some sleep. It keeps me looking youthful,” responded Flip, curling up and settling himself.

  Sagandran couldn’t think of a reply.

  Sir Tombin stretched his arms. “Our diminutive associate has, I believe, the correct idea,” he said. “I think I’ll follow his example and try out that bed.” He nodded to the four-poster on the other side of the room. “It’s been a long while since I last slept on an actual bed.”

  He lumbered to his feet.

  “I bid you a good night, Sagandran my friend.”

  Within moments he was stretched out still fully clad, and snoring raucously. As a gesture of decorum, he’d removed his plumed hat, but his scabbarded sword was still buckled to his waist.

  Sagandran sat on the end of the bed he was sharing with Flip, and struggled out of his shoes and socks. Moonlight shone softly through the window, bathing the room in a gossamer light. The myriad of stars were tiny diamonds on a velvet cloth. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tried to ignore the window’s bars, just drinking in the coolness and tranquility of the quiet night. A small breeze played across his chest and shoulders, making him shiver.

  “Don’t worry, Grandpa,” he whispered to the empty air. “We’ll find you.”

  King Fungfari I was seething as he lay in his richly bedizened imperial bed. Today had not been a good day and with sleep refusing to come to him, it seemed as if the day was obstinately prolonging itself. There had been that disturbing message from Queen Mirabella in the morning, then the arrival in the late afternoon of his ghastly daughter and her even ghastlier friends. To cap it all off, even after he’d sent the brattish girl to her room and was warmly congratulating himself on the fact that this was the last he’d see of her for the day, she’d reappeared.

  He’d been sitting in his study scanning Mirabella’s letter one last time, a big balloon-shaped glass of brandy by his elbow, when there was a knock at the door.

  “Enter!” he’d bawled reflexively, foolishly giving himself no chance to think better of it.

  When the door opened it revealed not a knock-kneed guardsman, but his scamp of a daughter. She was wearing a long blue nightdress and someone had taken the effort to comb out her hair and thrust her into a bath. In the light of the candle she held in front of her, he had to concede that she did look rather comely, something he’d not noticed earlier in the day.

  “Oh. It’s you, is it, Pergumbo? I thought you’d be in bed by now. Didn’t I order my guards to keep you in your room? Can’t you see how very busy I am? I have pressing affairs of state to cope with, and I have little time to spare.”

  “The name’s Perima, Daddy. I’ll be quick. I want to set off with Saga
ndran and the others on their journey to Spectram tomorrow.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I decree it so. I am your king, am I not?”

  “Hmmf.”

  “You’re to stay here in the royal court, where you belong. I will not have a daughter of mine running around the countryside any more, is that understood?”

  “Why?”

  “Just take a look at yourself, Pergumbo. You look like … well, this afternoon you looked like … you looked like a scruffy street-urchin boy, not a Princess of the Blood Royal. You were a disgrace to all Mattani and especially to the throne. You are the Princess Royal of this kingdom, and you’d better start to behave appropriately. I’ve heard all about you and your tomboy ways, you know. Only half an hour ago, my most recently appointed Chancellor was informing me of your wildness and telling me the most unwholesome stories about your activities.” He drew a breath. “According to my Chancellor, the populace are beginning to talk. They’re saying that if I can’t keep my elder daughter under my thumb, how can I expect to keep a whole country under control? Tell me that, eh?”

  He’d expected her to quail under the blistering force of his reprimand. Did not his guards do so? He’d expected wrong. Her jaw jutted out even more defiantly than before. A harsh determination that was older than her years flitted across her features. She held the candlestick higher, as if brandishing it at him.

  “But I don’t want to be a princess, Daddy. It’s like living in a prison. All those stupid codes and rules.”

  “Watch your tongue, young minx. Those very same codes and rules are what has made Mattani the great and glorious kingdom it is today.” He could feel his face growing steadily redder, and he knew that it wasn’t just the brandy which was to blame. The imperial temper, always notoriously short-fused, was in danger of exploding.

  “Great and glorious, huh? That’s not what everyone says. They say that Mattani is a backward, depressed little ratho—”

  King Fungfari thumped his clenched fist on the desk. Inkwells jumped. With his other hand, he reflexively saved his brandy glass from toppling.