Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Then, it was chaos.

  Dick slammed into the wall, then slid down, breathless. Did someone just punch him? It took him a moment to regain his senses.

  Crispin was crab-walking around the killer, trying to shield Dick. The assassin was determined, and wouldn’t run away, even now that his surprise attempt had been foiled.

  Mutt rushed into the fray, barking, growling, nipping at the man’s leg. The high-pitch noise was unnerving.

  “Guards!” Crispin shouted. “Prince Dietrich is under attack. Black Corridor. Guards!”

  The clerk lashed with his knife, cutting through Crispin’s sleeve. The manservant glided away from the blade, keeping a distance, timing his own thrust. The assassin kicked Mutt off him, and the furry mongrel slid down the hard stone and into a corner. Undeterred, he rushed in again, all squealing yelps and cries.

  Dick reached into his holster. The pistols were out. He fired, one, two. The discharge inside the narrow corridor was deafening.

  The assassin staggered back, spitting blood. He dropped the knife and sat down. His work uniform was turning dark red. Mutt was ferociously savaging the man’s shoe. Crispin stepped back.

  Wise man, Dick thought. “Don’t kill him,” he said, just for good measure, his own voice hoarse from excitement and pain.

  “Are you well, master?”

  Dick dusted himself off. His clothes were ruined now, but mercifully dry. The knife had not cut through. “Yes. Get Mutt.”

  The assassin was gasping for breath now, blood gushing out of his nose and down his lips, sticky threads hanging from his chin. He was looking at a distant spot, almost unaware of where he was.

  The thunder of footsteps assailed the corridor.

  Dick rolled his eyes. As always, the useless soldiers were rushing to his aid ever so belatedly. “Stand back,” he growled. “Do not touch that man.”

  The chorus of eager shouting and whistling slowly died off. But it was inevitable. Within a few minutes, everyone would have heard about yet another assassination attempt.

  With two new pistols in his hands, Dick approached the dying man, seated awkwardly and frothing blood. Crispin was crouching, ready to strike if needed. “Who sent you?”

  The killer mumbled something. A torrent of red came instead of words.

  Dick was getting annoyed. “Who sent you!”

  The attacker stopped wheezing. He had just died right there in that absurd pose.

  “Damnation!” Dick fired the two pistols at the corpse, the soldiers scrambling for cover. Mutt tactfully retreated behind Crispin. The dead man toppled neatly backwards. “Crispin!”

  “Master?”

  Dick stomped his foot. “I am really angry.”

  “I can imagine, Master.”

  “Is everyone trying to kill me?”

  “It would appear so, Master.”

  “Your Royal Highness?” An unfamiliar Drechknight called, standing behind several footmen. He had his named blade out. “Are you in danger?”

  “Not any more!” Dick fumed. “Search this whole forsaken place! I want every person accounted for, from the most bastardly of children to the lowliest scullion to Lady Enduria.” He reconsidered his order. “Except maybe not her. Go. Do something useful.”

  The crowd dispersed. Dick noticed his cousin Kief had remained behind, looking decidedly worried. Has he tried to organize my death? Suspicion and fury made Dick paranoid. “What?”

  “Well done, My Prince,” Kief said.

  Dick grimaced. “What do you want?”

  “I was looking for you, My Prince. Master Udo asked—”

  “I am not interested!”

  “—would be willing to demonstrate your shooting skills to the fresh recruits. For morale, My Prince.”

  Dick swallowed his rage. After his display of marksmanship at the walls, he had been exempt from humiliating sword training. Even Voytech’s ugly spiritual brother was smart enough to admit defeat and sidelined the orders he had in store for the warden.

  “I might. But not in this shirt!”

  “That will be taken care of, Master,” Crispin said quickly.

  “Who is that?” Kief asked, stepping closer.

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” Dick complained. Then he remembered Crispin’s quick reflexes, and that the servant had actually saved his life. “Thank you, Crispin.” And there was Mutt, too. The dog had calmed a little, now that his target wasn’t moving, but he was still alert, ready to bite. “You too, you flea carpet.” The mongrel started wagging its tail.

  At both ends of the corridors, guards were directing confused and curious servants away. The noise of panic and tumult just wouldn’t die. Dick’s head was starting to hurt, and he just couldn’t stand the sight of Tania’s half-brother. “Kief, begone.”

  “Yes, My Prince. Apologies. I shall inform Master Udo that you cannot—”

  “You will do no such thing. I will attend.” Let no one say an assassination attempt would ever stop Prince Dietrich from attending to his people. “As soon as I’m changed.”

  Once the bastard was gone, Dick knelt by the corpse, mindful of all the blood. “Crispin, search the body.”

  Crispin spent a few moment carefully going through the assassin’s pockets. “Nothing, master.”

  Another death, no answers. “These killers aren’t very considerate.”

  “They don’t seem to be, Master.” Crispin wiped his hands on the man’s trousers.

  Dick carefully holstered his pistols, including the spent ones. “Oh Crispin, just look at that tear.”

  “Atrocious, master.”

  “Are there any good tailors in this city?”

  “I will ask Lady Enduria, Master.”

  “No! I…just get me a nice silk shirt. Something simple. Maybe pale green with golden cuffs and buttons, and a sea-blue sash?”

  “I have stowed just the one in the luggage chest when we left Eisenstar, Master.”

  Dick stood up. “Good. Now, let’s have me changed quickly so I can show my gun skills to the folk of the city.” He took Mutt’s leash and started dragging the reluctant mongrel after him. “I must be seen out and about. People need to know I’m unharmed.”

  Crispin pointed at the corpse. “What about the mess, master?”

  “Never mind that. It will clean itself up.” With deliberate nonchalance, Dick led Mutt away. As far as the furry feces contraption was concerned, Dick noted, it was over. Dogs had it right, Dick thought. No point fretting, is there? Mindful of the stares fixed at him, he patiently waited for Mutt to stop sniffing another dusty corner. “Come, you little cur.”

  Resigned to the constant threat of assassination, excited about the weapons demonstration, and with Mutt and Crispin at his side, Dick pushed past the stunned guards, following the castle’s austere, dark hallways to his chambers.

  CHAPTER 29

  Prayers

  “Boil away the pride, unrobe the fine livery, strip away the flesh, and let the wind scour the bones; what remains is the ilk of kings.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE SAINT, AWAKENING, 12:9

  10th Day of the Month of the Sickle

  “I do not need protection,” Dick protested.

  “But you do, Your Royal Highness. Your life is in danger,” Ritter Heimo insisted.

  Not as much as yours will be if something happens to me, Dick thought. These men might be worried about his death, but they sure dreaded what Old Fart would do if Dick died on their watch. The Black Desert had endless wonders for those who displeased King Ulaf—or lapsed in their duty.

  “As long as Monrich has enemies, my life will be in peril.”

  Reeve Gotelieb wasn’t as convinced with Dick’s theatrics. “If you are hurt, Your Royal Highness, the city spirit will plummet, and make our defenses weaker. I do not intend to surrender Ostfort to the Barvans or the Nurflanders.”

  Dick speared a pickled olive off a plate. He ignored the fact this was Sacony food smuggled into the city after being sold to the enemy and then
sold again to Ostfort’s felons. Sometimes, law breakers could be a convenient commodity.

  “I will not be seen with an escort,” Dick said, tossing a small fork on the table. Mostly because it will just make me into an even more visible target.

  “Your courage is appreciated, but you will have Drechknight klingers accompany you whenever you leave your chamber.”

  Dick smiled. “And who will protect me inside it? In my bed?” He pictured Lady Enduria standing above him while he slept, naked, smiling, holding a big knife in her hands. He shuddered. “While I’m relieving myself?” Again, in his mind, she was there, behind him, grinning, waiting to overpower him. “If not for Crispin, I would be dead. With my own skill and Crispin’s aid, I will take care of any assassin that comes my way.” The pistols and the mail armor also seemed to help.

  Which reminded him…

  He thought about extending a prayer to the Saint. Not that he really cared, but one could never be too careful. After all, he had survived several close encounters with death recently, some thanks wouldn’t be out of place.

  He would make sure to publicize it and have the local elder praise his name. The small folk would be happy. It would give them something to focus on while waiting for the Fearless Brigade to relieve the city. There was a rumor General Eusebio’s van was harassing the Barvan supply lines about two days northwest, but no flizzards had arrived in Ostfort for a while now.

  No orders or complaints from Old Fart, either. That must be good news.

  Or maybe not.

  I must never forget. Any one of these people could be a spy working for my father.

  The reeve rallied on. “We must make sure—”

  “Enough. There will be no armed escort. If you want your solders to feel valid and useful, then have them figure out a way to break the siege.”

  Gotelieb reddened. But he said nothing.

  Dick smiled. They are beginning to respect me, he mused smugly. After his recent heroics, he was no longer just a spoiled prince. He had proven his worth in combat, he was an excellent shooter, and he had survived a string of assassinations, and killed all his attackers—except one. The wounded man had still not been found, nor was there any report of a fly-eaten corpse rotting in a narrow alley.

  Dick knew he should be angry. He had been sent to this ugly place against his desire, and was forced to suffer the likes of Amadea and Lady Enduria and all the rest of them on a daily basis. But the misfortune had allowed him to prove his worth.

  Boil away the pride, unrobe the fine livery, strip away the flesh, and let the wind scour the bones; what remains is the ilk of kings.

  Dick had never been fond of books and scriptures, but he remembered this one passage clearly. He also remembered running out of the tiny, stifling room, with Elder Eckart chasing him for eating during class.

  “Thank you for your time.” He rose, and they followed suit. Lady Enduria was eying him, but she said nothing.

  Just outside the chamber, the Salabian baan’s son was waiting under the watchful eye of two armored knights. The princeling didn’t look his usual hateful self. If anything, Zbigniew seemed quite meek. “Your Royal Highness, if I may supplicate of your time.”

  Supplicate? Oh, beg! “What do you want?”

  Zbigniew squirmed. “I wish to be allowed to pray at the castle temple.”

  Dick frowned. “And…?”

  “Elder Niklaus will not let me.”

  “And why would he not?”

  The Salabian looked down. “I hear he lost a brother in the last siege. Killed by…our army.”

  “That is indeed most unfortunate, Zbigniew. The consequences of war. There are many temples in the city. You will seek your prayer elsewhere, then.”

  Dick didn’t wait to hear the boy’s reaction. His mind was bursting with a brilliant new idea. He would take Amadea to the temple, and they would pray together! Well, she would pray for most of it, and he would just piously close his eyes, but the people would see and hear and gossip and elevate his name.

  “Master, wait!” Crispin shouted, running to catch up.

  “Let us find my dear lady wife.”

  One of the Drechknights decided to follow him. Dick shook his head. Reluctantly, the man stayed behind, probably working out through what he would tell his commanding officer.

  He and Crispin reached an empty corridor. There were no guards outside Amadea’s chamber. Strange.

  Dick rapped on the old wood. Natascha opened the door, and her toothed grin made him cringe. “Where is my wife?”

  The maid curtsied. “She has gone to seek prayer at the temple, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick frowned. “And why aren’t you with her?”

  “Milady wishes to pray alone.”

  Must be a Sacony thing. Inside the chamber, he noticed Olivia giving him a baleful look. Or was it fear?

  Walking away from the chamber, Dick lowered his voice. “I noticed something, Crispin.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I think those two maids had something to hide from me.”

  “Women always have something to hide from men, Master.”

  Dick sniffed. “How would you know that?”

  “My mother used to say that.”

  Dick realized he had never invested time in learning about the people that surrounded him. For that matter, he knew more about Volkard than he did about half his own staff, or his chubby little wife. “Maybe I should try to get to know Amadea.” On the other hand, he probably should not.

  “People love you, Master. But you don’t always give them enough opportunity to realize that.”

  “Are you being unctuous, Crispin?”

  “I wouldn’t know what that means, Master.”

  Dick nodded at the musty tapestry hanging from the walls. “Perhaps I should try to avail myself more to my servants. Such a display of goodwill ought to breed loyalty.” He thought about Mutt savaging the carpet that morning, and then looking blissfully happy while Dick reprimanded him. Yes, dogs did have their qualities.

  A passing Drechknight slammed his fist against his chest in a salute. Dick winced. Why would the man do that all of a sudden, give him such a fright. But then he tried to be more forgiving, more considerate when it came to other folks and their actions.

  The knight was merely trying to be respectful. They never used to do that before. They see me now as one of their own.

  Dick strutted the rest of the way to the temple, only to find it quiet.

  Elder Niklaus wasn’t there, nor any of his apprentices. There were no guards, nor the stooped gardener that tended to the few parcels of green that lived inside the grim stonework of the fort. The two ugly Sisters of Temperance that he occasionally saw were missing, too.

  He knew that people in Ostfort were not as keen on prayer as in Sacony, but he had expected at least a modicum of farce and piety. He whistled through his teeth.

  Crispin was tense.

  Dick waved for him to stand down and looked around. The chapel was wedged against two walls, facing a small triangular court, with a pair of poplars growing on the far side, lashing against the slate tiles of the armory. The ground was damp and bare. The shade from the walls and the tall trees wouldn’t let anything else bud there.

  Should I be worried, Dick thought. Yes, I should. If something bad and irrecoverable has happened to Amadea, Old Fart will arrange for the fastest ship to carry me across the White Sea and to the Black Desert.

  Empty barrels of wine were stacked to the right of the temple. A scruffy cat was sleeping on one, neatly curled like a pork pie. Dick approached, and the cat lazily sauntered away to safety, out of his reach. If one was determined, one could climb the barrels and vault up to the walkway. Or slip and fall hard, breaking every bone in your body. Behind the barrels, there was a ground door leading into the cellar, and it was open.

  Noise was coming from the inside—repetitive squeaking of wood.

  Dick snorted. “The elder must be busy finishing off the l
ast vintage before this siege ends.”

  “Do you want me to take a look, Master?”

  Dick rolled a barrel out of his way. “No, I will do it.” He wanted to see the elder’s face when he caught him in the act.

  He lowered himself into the cellar and turned around. It was dark—but bright enough to see all the details.

  No Elder Niklaus.

  Instead, Kiefer Drechfiesling, his cousin thrice removed, and Amadea, his wife present, were busy copulating.

  It was shocking.

  Revolting.

  Disgusting.

  Appalling.

  It was brilliant!

  Oh dear Saint, thank you, thank you!

  They stood—well, sort of—frozen with terror. Their two pale faces stared at him in absolute consternation.

  Dick smiled softly.

  Kief recovered first. Slowly, he detached himself from the pale slab of flesh that was Amadea, raising his hands defensively. He didn’t bother, or maybe he had forgotten, to cover his nudity.

  “Your Royal Highness—”

  Dick cut him off by raising his finger. He frowned, realized he’d done the exact thing Old Fart would. He replaced the gesture with a raised pistol. Amadea gasped. Kief swallowed audibly. “Cousin, what kind of a man dares bed the wife of another, when he fully knows the power, the influence and the temper of said husband?”

  “Your Royal Highness—”

  “A member of his family? A royal member?”

  “Your Royal Highness—”

  “What kind of a man dares provoke a prince who happens to be an excellent shot?”

  “I did not—”

  “A prince who happens to have no fewer than ten pistols about him?”

  “My—”

  “All loaded?”

  Amadea was trying to cover herself with a gold satin skirt. “Deek—”

  “Silence,” Dick growled.

  Crispin moved to the cellar entrance, blocking the light. “Master, I can hear you talking. Is everything all right, Master?”

  “Splendid. Stay out there.”

  “Your Royal Highness, please,” Kief whispered, his voice squeaky with fear.

  “Put your clothes on, and do not talk,” Dick warned.