by John Moore
“I’d be delighted. Here.” He brought Winslow forward. “Winslow, pencil me in for a guild picnic next Thursday at two o’clock.” He turned back to the sheepman. “Give the details to my man here, and we’ll see if it can be arranged. Good-bye, Emma.”
The girl looked up briefly and gave a tiny wave.
“The picnic is next Thursday,” the man told Winslow. “At two . . .” He paused thoughtfully. Winslow made a mental note to set out wool clothing for the Prince and rehearse him on his speech “Sheep Raising, the Foundation of a Strong Economy.”
When he caught up to Kevin again the Prince was talking with a woman who spun flax. Her husband raised flax, her daughters spun it, and her uncles wove it. They were planning a large family reunion. Kevin promised to stop by. Winslow made a mental note to set out linen clothing and rehearse the Prince on his speech, “Flax Cultivation, the Foundation of a Strong Economy.”
Kevin continued to work the crowd, collecting more gifts of jams and preserves, hand-knit scarves, sweaters, gloves, mittens, baskets of fruit, carved wooden cups and bowls, and even a wooden flute. All of which were passed on to Winslow to carry. By the time they reached the edge of the gardens, the valet had his arms full and gifts stacked up to his chin. Kevin decided they had done enough. The other suitors were finished speaking. They had left the balcony, while the crowd below was thinning out and going home. The two men slipped through some bushes to follow an empty path back to the castle. Kevin stopped to take some of the heavier parcels from Winslow. When he turned back an old woman was standing in the middle of the path.
“Beware, Timberline,” she said. “Beware of the man in black.”
Kevin sighed. “Oh great, a soothsayer.” He shifted his parcels. “That’s all we need right now.”
They could barely see her in the darkness. It was the rasp in her voice that gave the impression of great age, a whispery sound like coarse sandpaper on soft wood. She wore a dark cloak with a hood, and her features were hidden in shadow, but when she held up a crooked finger, the moonlight gleamed off bone white skin. “Beware, Prince Kevin of Rassendas,” she repeated. “Beware . . .”
“Of the man in black. I got it the first time,” said the Prince. “Sorry, but I’ve never been impressed with seers and soothsayers. Save your sooth for another sucker. I don’t believe anyone can predict the future.”
“I knew you were going to say that. Beware the man . . .”
“Yes, yes. You all give the same vague, useless warnings that could mean anything. ‘Repent, for the End is Nigh. Beware the Ides of March. Watch out for the Man in Black.’ Now what good is that? There are men wearing black clothes everywhere. Why can’t soothsayers ever be specific?”
“About six-foot-two, fourteen stone,” said the old woman promptly. The words were not loud, but they were clear and definite. “Brown eyes, dark hair parted on the left, small mustache and pointed beard. Likes his tea with lemon biscuits. Two lumps, no milk.”
Kevin wasn’t expecting a reply like this. “That could still describe a lot of people.”
“Slightly chipped upper left canine tooth. Small tattoo of a spider on the back of the right hand.”
“Um, that’s still . . .”
“Third button of his waistcoat will be missing.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Kevin moved closer. Now he could see the woman was bent and hunched over. “And just when exactly is this mysterious encounter supposed to take place? I don’t suppose you could . . .”
“Five days from now,” said the old woman. “A few hours past midnight. It will be chilly. Wear a sweater.”
“Chilly? It’s the middle of summer! And just what am I supposed to beware of?”
“Goodness, you’re a picky one. What is it? You want quatrains? I’ll give you quatrains. Pay attention.” She cleared her throat, rolled her eyes up until the whites showed in the patented, spooky prophetess manner, and rasped out:
“You shall not defeat the man in black
That which you seek, you won’t bring back
The guards will falter in the attack
And you will . . . you’ll . . . um . . . what’s another word that
rhymes with black?”
“Snack,” said Kevin.
“Heart attack,” said Winslow.
“She already used attack.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
The woman was leafing through a pocket-sized rhyming dictionary. “Can’t read a word in this moonlight. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“No hurry. Listen, lady, if you could really see into the future, you wouldn’t be standing in the King’s garden at night making predictions. You’d be cleaning up on short-term investments.”
The old woman suddenly straightened up. “Good Lord!” she rasped. “That reminds me. I’ve got to see my broker. What with the market so uncertain and the change in interest rates . . .” She turned, took two steps off the path, and disappeared into the shadows. But from the darkness she called back once more. “Just beware, young Timberline. Beware of a tall man with dark hair, hypnotic eyes, a scarred face, an evil smile, and an insane laugh. Oh, and a pinkie ring.”
“Wait!” said Kevin. “What’s going to happen to interest rates?” He followed her off the path and looked around. The lights from the castle windows fell on an empty garden. The old woman had vanished.
He returned to the path. His valet had been watching all this over his stack of parcels. “What did you make of that, Winslow?”
“I must say, sire, that the seers here in Deserae certainly give value for money.”
“Yeah. Nonsense, of course. Did you happen to catch all of it?”
“I’m afraid that all I can remember now is to beware the man in black.”
“Yeah.” The Prince frowned. “Didn’t she say he had a beard? It’s got to be Logan, right? A man in black?”
“Perhaps not, sire. It’s hard to judge color in the lamplight. I think His Lordship may be wearing dark navy.”
“I think it’s black. Of course, everyone in the city knows I’m competing with Logan, so that’s not much of a prophecy. It just convinces me that they’re all a bunch of frauds.”
“I quite agree, sire. Still, Your Highness, it would have been nice . . .” Winslow hesitated.
“If she’d talked more about her investments?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Forget it, Winslow. Let’s go eat.”
They returned to the castle. Back inside, it was easy enough to find servants to care for their parcels. By the time the two returned to the Grand Ballroom, it had mostly emptied into the Banquet Hall. It was filled with long tables and seats with velvet cushions. But no one was sitting yet. They were all standing behind their chairs, waiting for Princess Rebecca to arrive. Between the guests, waiters were filling glasses, setting out baskets of rolls, and relighting any candles that had gone out. Candlelight gleamed off highly polished silver cutlery. New tapestries, of burgundy-and-gold cloth, draped the walls. A string quartet was playing chamber music. Kevin sent Winslow off to dine below stairs and took his place on the dais, alongside the other guests of honor. Bigelow nodded at him when he returned, then murmured an aside. “So we get to meet the Ice Princess at last. At least I’ll get a look at her before I leave town.”
“You’ve never seen her?”
“If my old man had his way, we’d never see our betrotheds until the wedding day. Bad for discipline, he thinks. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I take it you have seen her.”
“I did some diplomatic work here last summer,” said Kevin. Bigelow was smart enough to recognize this as a nonanswer. He shrugged it off.
The suitors gathered on a raised platform, all on one side of a table, an assortment of Deserae’s nobility on the other side, and Lord Hepplewhit at the foot. (In their pursuit of the Princess, Deserae’s custom was that all suitors were considered of equal rank.) Kevin was placed between Bigelow and Harkness, and across from Lady Tripple. She gave him an
encouraging smile. The seat at the head of the table was empty, as were the chairs on either side. Hepplewhit talked with Raymond, while keeping half an eye on the clock. A door opened in the side of the Banquet Hall, and Princess Rebecca entered, preceded by two of her ladies-in-waiting and followed by two officers of the guard. The music stopped. As one man, Logan, Harkness, Bigelow, and Raymond leaned slightly forward.
When a man looked at Princess Rebecca, the first thing that registered on his mind was an impression of curves. Curves that moved. Curves that swayed. Curves that flowed and rolled like waves on a tumultuous sea. Curves that shifted and slid under her clothes, making the fabric strain and stretch and hug her flesh at one spot, then suddenly ripple away to find a new curve to caress. A woman might notice the curves also, but she would also notice that the blond hair was tied up in a severe bun, the pale skin of her face showed only a trace of makeup, the blue eyes were every bit as cold as her reputation, and the lips, when she looked at the assembled suitors, were set in an expression of seemingly permanent disdain. Men did tend to notice these things, too. Eventually. It usually required three or four looks—sometimes as many as nine—before the average male could raise his eyes to Rebecca’s face at all. She was, in truth, just a little bit on the heavy side. But the extra weight had been distributed well. Her waist was narrow, so the extra padding on her hips and breasts simply exaggerated her hourglass shape.
“My God,” murmured Bigelow. “To think when my father mentioned the mountains of Deserae I thought he was talking about the countryside.”
“Shush,” said Kevin. “Be nice.” Rebecca’s dress was of a lightweight watered silk, sky-blue to match her eyes, and thin enough to reveal that there was nothing to conceal. No wire or whalebone supported that lush figure. It was all girl.
The Princess and her entourage reached the table and stopped. One of the officers stepped forward and pulled out her chair. She sat down, looked around the room, and nodded. The two ladies-in-waiting took their seats on either side of the Princess. There was a great rustle of skirts as the rest of the women in the Banquet Hall sat down. The men remained standing until Hepplewhit gave the toast to the King. The music started. Hepplewhit sat down. Everyone else sat down. The officers withdrew. Conversation resumed.
A waiter with a tureen and a ladle appeared between Bigelow and Kevin. “Soup, sir?”
“Just dump it in my lap,” said Bigelow. “It will take my mind off what I’m missing.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Just a joke. What is this, turtle? Yes, I’ll have some soup. What do you think, Timberline?”
“The turtle soup here is always good.”
“I mean the Princess, you twit.”
Kevin gave her an uninterested glance. “A pretty girl.”
“Dammit, man, are you giving up or what? Look at Logan hanging over her every word. You’re going to have to lay the charm on pretty thick if you don’t want to lose out.”
“Lord Logan can pitch woo to the Princess all he wants, but it will help him not one jot. It is her father that needs to be persuaded. And the King will act on the advice of the Council of Lords. Those are the people who need to be convinced.”
“Well, that’s true. But it can’t hurt to get the girl on your side. I’ll discuss the subject in my after-dinner speech.”
“It’s your turn to speak tonight?”
“My topic will be Large Breasts, the Foundations of a Strong Economy.”
“A perennial favorite.”
Rebecca was already in conversation with the other men. “I understand, Raymond, that you consider yourself something of a poet.”
“Indeed, Your Highness. In fact, I have composed a poem in your own honor. Would you do me the favor of listening to it?”
“No. And you, Harkness. I’m told you are a student?”
“I am at university, yes.”
“And do you study something useful?”
“Geography, Your Highness.”
“I approve of that. There is so much about the globe that remains unknown. Perhaps you can fill some of those gaps in our knowledge. When you become an adult. Personally, I cannot abide an idle man. And you, Lord Logan?”
“I am far from idle, Princess. I am a man of action. I am in charge of my country’s defenses, and I have devoted myself to keeping Angostura secure. As you are no doubt aware, for some time we suffered from . . . disturbances, both from within and without. I am pleased to say that I have resolved those difficulties.”
“Commendable of you, I’m sure. Samuel Bigelow, many of my friends are looking forward to hearing you speak.”
“I appreciate that, Your Highness. But are you looking forward to it?”
“I am not. And you, Timberline. How do you occupy your time?”
“In idleness, Your Highness.”
As a conversation stopper, this served very well. Bigelow frowned at him and give a tiny sigh of exasperation. The rest of the table fell quiet. Lady Tripple raised her eyebrows. The ladies-in-waiting looked at Kevin with interest. Rebecca put down her spoon, cocked her head, and eyed Kevin severely. Kevin calmly took another spoonful of soup.
“Is that so, Prince Kevin?”
“Indeed yes, Your Highness. It is clear to me that most of the world’s problems are caused by the inability of men to sit quietly in a room and do nothing.”
“That sounds like a quotation.”
“It is, although I fear I cannot remember the source.”
“What nonsense!” said Logan.
“Do you find it hard work, this program of doing nothing?”
“It can be quite an effort sometimes, particularly when the situation cries out for dramatic action. But I persevere, for I believe that a man of my position should set a good example for others.”
“Hmm. I can respect the perseverance, if not the intention. So many men would be unable to stick to a rigorous program of inaction.” Princess Rebecca fixed her cold, clear eyes on Kevin and studied him for what seemed like a long time. The rest of the table watched them both. Kevin calmly finished his soup. “Prince Kevin, you intrigue me.” Suddenly, the Princess stood up. The rest of the room began to rise also. She motioned for them to remain seated. “Honored guests, please enjoy your dinners. Prince Kevin, we will continue our discussion in my salon at eight o’clock. Do be prompt.” And with that she swept out.
There was a strained hush at the table for a long moment, the kind of feeling you get when you are expecting a violent thunderstorm, but the clouds pass over without letting go.
It lasted until the waiters came to set out new plates. Harkness was the first to break the silence. “If I were married to that girl,” he said to Raymond, “I would give her a sound spanking.”
“Would that do any good?”
“It would do me a world of good.”
“ ‘Prince Kevin, you intrigue me,’” repeated Bigelow. He clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old boy. You threw away the opening pawn, and she responded to your gambit. Good luck to you.”
“I’m sure we’ll have a pleasant conversation,” said Kevin noncommittally.
Logan said nothing. He just stared at Kevin with dagger eyes.
Thunk the Barbarian propped himself up against a tree, breathing in short gasps, for the pain in his chest was too great to allow deep breaths. On the brighter side, the pain in his ribs was less than the pain in his legs. Which was less than the pain in his head. “Heroism,” he told himself, “consists of hanging on one minute longer.” His father had taught him that, and he was sure his father had been quoting someone else, perhaps his own father. He never learned the source of the quote, but he did learn the lesson. Being a barbarian hero meant more than fighting and drinking and rescuing underdressed babes and wearing a necklace of wolves’ teeth. It meant . . . it meant . . . well, it meant hanging on when you couldn’t hang on any longer. It meant fighting when your arms were too weak to lift a sword. It meant ignoring cold and heat. It mea
nt going without food or sleep or booze if that’s what it took to get the job done. It meant satisfying an underdressed babe even when you were too tired—not that he’d ever had that problem—besides, he’d been drunk.
And it meant taking another step when you couldn’t move a muscle. And when you couldn’t take another step, you crawled.
He took another step.
And then another. He’d been taking another step for days now. He’d lost track of the days, and his vision had gotten pretty dark and it was hard to focus. Now it was night. There was a full moon out to light his way. How long had it been night? He didn’t remember the sun going away. But there was the moon, and there were plenty of stars out. And there were lights on the horizon that weren’t stars. Lights of the city. He headed that way.
He was walking on the road. During the day he left the road to shake off his pursuers, and at night he got back on. Now it was night, and he was back on the road, even though he couldn’t remember finding it. He didn’t like that. He was Thunk the Barbarian, and he didn’t run away from anyone. They ran away from him. A hero died fighting. His father had died fighting. Granted, he had been fighting in a tavern over an unpaid bar tab. It was still fighting, though. But Thunk remembered he had something important to tell the King. That was all that counted.
The city was ahead. There were taverns in the city. He told himself he’d have a drink when he got there. And clean up some of this blood. And then he could sleep. Yes, drink and sleep. Right after he saw the King.
The next time he stopped, he told himself he’d only rest long enough to get his strength back. But his strength wasn’t coming back anymore. It was ebbing away, and he was running out of time. He knew now that he couldn’t stop again, that the next time he stopped he would stop forever. He’d have to keep walking.
And then crawl.
He pushed himself away from the tree with both arms and took an unsteady step forward. And then another. And another. He was walking in the woods again, amid oak and alder and beech. And lots of other trees he couldn’t recognize. Trees with flowers. When he broke out of the trees he could hear music. And hear voices. There were bushes, with paths in between. People were walking along the paths, men, women and children. He realized that he wasn’t in a woods, he was in a garden. Ahead he could see the castle, the large lighted windows, and the shadows of the people dancing behind them. He aimed himself in that direction, at the biggest window, with the lights and the music and the dancing and the people.