by John Moore
Winslow opened his eyes and gave a half nod. “I’m sorry, sire.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“In my own mind, I’ve often pictured myself as one of those imperturbable valets that you hear about. The sort who always know the right thing to do and are never at a loss for words. I suppose I’ve never really achieved that. Still, I thought I was a good man to have around in an emergency. But this was so . . . unexpected . . . and grotesque. All the blood!”
“He looks pretty bad all right. And to see him suddenly, at night, would have given anyone a turn. Don’t worry about it. You’re still a good man to have around in an emergency.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“And Winslow, about Becky . . .”
“The Princess Rebecca, sire?”
“The Princess. Not a word to anyone about what you saw.”
“Of course not, sire.”
“I mean it. Not to anyone. Not below stairs either.”
“I understand. Sire, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you—I know you move fast but—how is it possible—the Ice Princess?”
“You remember last year, when Dad sent me up here for a diplomatic visit with Berry and Wainright?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I met Becky and—I won’t go into the details, but we kind of really liked each other, and we’ve been secretly exchanging letters. Also, I’ve been coming up here . . .”
“When you said you were going on those fishing trips?”
“Yes. She’s in a difficult position, you’ve got to understand. The marriage is a very big thing. There’s all sorts of politics here, and she’s not supposed to play favorites.”
“You can count on my discretion, sire.”
“Good man.” Kevin sipped his brandy. “We’ve been planning this evening for a long time. You think this will put her out of the mood?”
Winslow managed a weak smile. “I fear so.”
“Ah, well. There will be other evenings.”
Winslow suddenly pointed. “He moved!”
Kevin looked. Thunk’s body was still. He was about to tell his valet that the moon was playing tricks with his eyes when he saw a finger twitch. “Winslow, get a doctor. Becky!”
By the time she reached him, clad in a loose dress and with her hair back up, Winslow was already gone, and Kevin was kneeling by Thunk’s side. The barbarian’s eyes were open now, and he seemed to be trying to speak.
“Just take it easy,” said Kevin. “Help is on the way.”
Becky grabbed a pillow and slid it under Thunk’s head. The barbarian was opening and closing his fist. She spotted his sword on the edge of the balcony.
“He wants his sword.” She took it by the handle and brought it back. “Is this what you wanted, Thunk?” She put it in his hand. “Does he think someone is chasing him? Thunk, you’re in the Castle Deserae. You’re safe now.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
Thunk managed to shake his head. Blood bubbled from his lips. Kevin bent his head low. “Stop him? Did you say stop him? Stop who, Thunk?”
Thunk lay still a long moment. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and, with a final, convulsive effort, thrust his sword into Kevin’s hand. “In ten days,” he gasped, and this time the words were very clear. “In ten days the kingdom will . . .” And then he was really and truly dead.
Becky looked at Kevin. Kevin looked at Thunk, then at the bloody sword in his hands, and then at Thunk again. “Dramatic exit.”
“I think,” said Becky. “That there are things Daddy hasn’t been telling me.”
Before setting off on a heroic adventure, it is wise to practice climbing scaffolds and trellises until you can do so WITHOUT dropping your sword.
—HANDBOOK OF PRACTICAL HEROICS BY ROBERT TAYLOR
It was not immediately, nor the next morning, but the day after, that Kevin was summoned to see the King. In between had been a time of much activity. No public announcement was made of Thunk’s death. The army, however, was placed on alert. Furloughs were canceled, and soldiers began drifting from their homes back to their barracks. Weapons were inspected. Bridles were repaired, and horses were reshod. New socks were issued to the infantry, a dead giveaway that a long march was coming up.
Officers, in uniforms of ruby red twill cloth, buff leather straps, and gold braid, stalked the corridors of Castle Deserae. Official couriers, dispatch cases under their arms and the insignia of the silver whippet on their breasts, raced up and down the staircases. The Council of Lords met in an emergency session with the King. Ambassadors and diplomats questioned Kevin repeatedly, asking him to describe every detail of the evening with Thunk. Then they pulled their cloaks over their shoulders and held quiet, furtive conversations in the doorway. Berry and Wainright, Kevin’s seniors in diplomatic service, sent long, coded messages back to Rassendas. Princess Rebecca remained in her rooms. Harkness and Raymond were discreetly informed that they were out of the running and hustled on the way back to their respective countries with as much haste as could be mustered without seeming rude. Sam Bigelow made his farewells to Logan and Kevin, then mounted his horse and rode off on his own schedule. If he noticed anything was amiss, he gave no sign of it.
Once he had told his story, Kevin was pretty much out of the loop. He decided to stick with his original schedule. In the morning he ate breakfast at the Merchant Seaman’s home, where he visited with elderly sailors, followed by morning tea with the Deserae Ladies’ Baking Society. After judging the contest for fruit tarts, purchasing a vast quantity of them, and handing out the prizes (embroidered doilies), he proceeded to City Hall to have lunch with several members of the city council. In the afternoon he found himself surrounded by schoolchildren when he went to visit a house that was being quarantined for scarlet fever. The children remained outside the gate, while the Prince stood in the garden and called out cheerily to a small, serious boy standing at an upstairs window. He gravely told the Prince that he was going to become a pirate, as pirates did not have to learn how to spell. The Prince said that the spelling tests teachers gave these days were much too hard, but what could you do? Piracy, they agreed, was the only option. The conversation terminated with the arrival of a delivery wagon, which distributed the aformentioned fruit tarts to the household and surrounding children. Returning to the castle, he declined to dress for dinner and instead asked for a cold plate to be sent up to his room. It arrived along with a silver tray, which held the summons to the King.
King Calephon of Deserae prided himself on being a practical man. He had told Kevin so when Kevin arrived, three weeks previously, to “officially” court Becky. “Deserae is a small country,” he had said. “We’re rich in resources, but they’re not well developed yet. We have neither the finances nor the manpower for constant warfare, yet we occupy land that others want. Our survival depends on strategic alliances. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Rebecca’s a fine girl. A king couldn’t ask for a better daughter. A daughter who understands that she has a role to play. She knows her responsibility. She’ll marry whomever I and the Council of Lords choose for her, regardless of her own personal feelings. Do you follow me?”
Kevin wasn’t sure that he had. Was this a warning? Did the King already know that he and Becky were in love? He sent a message to Becky as soon as he could, but she had no more clue than he did. They had decided to assume their secret was still secret and act that way.
Now he looked at the note and passed it to Winslow. “Good news,” his valet said.
“You think so?”
“Surely the King will wish to discuss your engagement to the Princess.”
Kevin took the note back, folded it, and tapped it thoughtfully against his front teeth. “I don’t think so, Winslow. When the announcement comes, it’s going to be something official, from the Council of Lords, with a lot of flourish and fanfare.” He unfolded the note and looked at it again. I
t was a simple appointment with the King’s “C” scrawled at the bottom. “Not a page ripped out of his Day by Day calendar with the daily golf joke at the top.”
“Good point, sire.”
The next morning he dressed with particular care, knowing that he was representing Rassendas, wearing his diplomatic sash and a blazer with his crest of office. The summons was not to the throne room, but to the vast chapel in the west wing of the castle. Kevin arrived a little early, taking time to admire the beautiful stained-glass windows, the marble floors, the intricately carved pews and pulpit, and the complex artwork that covered the walls and ceiling. The ceiling of the Sisyphean Chapel was famous throughout the Twenty Kingdoms. At one end Prometheus reached down to give the gift of fire to Man—the other end showed Eurydice descending into Hades. The center of the painting encompassed the whole panoply of classical gods. As always, painters were at work. A good portion of the room was blocked by scaffolding. The masterpiece was so big, and the pigments used so delicate, that no sooner was the last section finished than the first one had to be retouched again.
“To tell the truth, all I really wanted was a light sky-blue, with perhaps some gold trim.”
Kevin started at the sound of a voice. He turned to find the King standing behind him. He came to attention and bowed. The King waved him off casually and continued, “Then somehow, I got in a stupid argument with the contractor over the difference between off-white and eggshell.” Calephon gestured at the scaffolding. “I had no idea there were so many different shades of white. Then we got sidetracked onto interior design. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had agreed to all this. Ridiculous, really.” He strolled down the length of the chapel. “I should have listened to Rebecca’s mother. ‘Beige,’ she said. ‘Paint the ceilings beige.’ She said that all the time. Damn good idea.”
“Yes, sire.”
“This way, Timberline.” The King had his office not far from the chapel. It was a square, high-ceilinged room lined with beautifully carved bookcases. The floor was padded with a thick carpet that spread outward from an elaborate and truly enormous desk. A person with an eye for security might also notice that the room had no windows and one small door, accessible only by a narrow and easily defended hallway. When Kevin entered the King dismissed his other visitors and shut the door firmly behind them. “Come on in, Timberline. Whiskey there in the decanter. Pour yourself one if you want it.”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“We need to talk, Timberline. Private. Face-to-face. I’ve got something to say to you. You have a decision to make. Some things have to be said in person. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want you to look at this.” The King walked over to one of the bookcases. He selected a volume called History of the Draconian Empire and slid it partway out of the shelf. Then he stepped back and waited. Nothing happened. He slid the book back into the shelf and then out again. Still nothing. Finally, he pulled the book out completely, peered in the space behind it, and put it back again.
Kevin stood by patiently. The King went to his desk, extracted a note from the second drawer, and studied it. “The Seven-Minute Despot,” he muttered, as he went back to the wall and pulled out an entirely different book. A section of bookcase slid back a crack and stopped.
The King took off one of his shoes and gave the shelf a hearty whack with the heel. The section slid back more to reveal a hidden alcove. The King buckled his shoe back on. “It sticks sometimes during damp weather.”
“Right.”
“Now then,” said King Calephon, straightening up, “what do you see in there?”
Kevin peered into the hole. It was about a yard square and perhaps a foot deep, lined with iron plate and firebrick. It look extremely secure. At first glance it appeared to be empty. Kevin picked up an oil lamp and examined it more carefully. “I see nothing, sir.”
“Exactly. It’s been stolen.”
This bit of noninformation obviously invited questions, and it was a great temptation at this point to play the smartaleck and remain silent. But the King looked grave, so Kevin said the lines that were clearly expected of him. “What was stolen, sir? And by whom?”
“An Ancient Artifact. Stolen. By Lord Voltmeter. ‘He Who Must Be Named.’”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Lord Voltmeter is He Who Must Be Named. For some reason it’s considered dangerous to use personal pronouns with regard to Voltmeter. Don’t ask me why. Some sort of local superstition. Anyway, he’s an Evil Overlord.”
“Ah,” said Kevin. “One of those guys.”
“Yes. As if we didn’t have enough troubles. Deserae tends to attract Evil Overlords. They like the mountainous terrain. Crumbling castles perched atop dramatic crags, mist-filled valleys, isolated villages. Plenty of spots out there that are perfect for an Evil Overlord to set up shop. Some years they’re just thick as thieves along the passes. During the summer anyway. During the off-season they tend to head for the islands.”
“Right.”
“They’re all dangerous, of course, but usually we can defeat them without too much trouble. Unfortunately, Voltmeter presents a different case. He stole the Ancient Artifact. Not him personally, of course. No doubt some highly accomplished professional thieves stole it for him. I won’t go into the details, but it was spirited right from under our noses and out of the castle.”
“Was it insured?”
“Yes, but we still have to pay the deductible. Anyway, the money isn’t the problem. The problem is that the Ancient Artifact is a source of tremendous power.” The King handed Kevin a thin booklet. “Here, take a look at the owner’s manual. You see what I mean?”
Kevin flipped through the booklet. It was full of numbers and cryptic abbreviations. With warning messages. Lots of warning messages. He couldn’t follow any of it except the title. “Ancient Artifact Model Seven,” he read aloud.
“The most powerful there is. Hot stuff, they told me. The latest model.”
“I thought it was an ancient artifact.”
“It is. Practically brand-new, too.”
To cover his confusion, Kevin read from the booklet again. “Clean your Ancient Artifact with soap and water, then polish with a soft cloth. Do not use ammonia-based cleaners.”
“Dulls the finish,” said the King. “The point, Timberline, is that Voltmeter has become far more dangerous than your ordinary Evil Overlord. The Ancient Artifact gives him the power to put his Diabolical Plan into action. He’s got to be stopped, and stopped quickly.”
“What is his Diabolical Plan, sir?”
“We don’t know. But we know he has one. All Evil Overlords have a Diabolical Plan and any Diabolical Plan Voltmeter comes up with is bound to be a goody. Thunk spent his last breath trying to warn us.”
The King walked back to his desk and took a seat behind it. “I didn’t want the public to be alarmed, so I tried the quiet approach first. I sent Thunk off myself to steal the Ancient Artifact back. That didn’t work, and now Voltmeter is forewarned. Now we go in with military force. And that’s where we need your help.”
“Happy to oblige, sir.”
“Good, good. Naturally, as soon as you arrived to court my daughter, we ran a background check on you. You’re quite an exceptional young man. And your record of military service is particularly impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.”
King Calephon opened a dossier in front of him and flipped through the pages as he talked. “Nothing but compliments from everyone we spoke to. Exemplary performance, they all said. The highest recommendations. Your superiors rated you as the most capable young officer they’d seen in that position in years. Frankly, Timberline, you’re just the person we need in a time of crisis like this.”
Kevin the Capable? It wasn’t great, but the Prince thought he could get used to it. “I’m at your service, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent.” Calephon reached for a second dossier. “Now,
Lord Logan will be leading the attack against Lord Voltmeter’s castle. He’ll need horses, arms, food, supplies . . .”
“Excuse me, sir. Did you say Lord Logan will be leading the attack?”
“Yes, of course. And I must say we were damn lucky to have him here at this time. This sort of frontal assault is right up his alley.”
Kevin had that feeling you get when you are walking on a frozen lake and one foot suddenly goes through the ice. “Um, I rather thought that you were asking me to . . .”
“Supply officer. Logistics and supply, that’s where you put your time in, wasn’t it? ‘If you want a top-notch supply officer, Timberline is your man.’ That’s what they all said.”
“Yes, yes, I’m very flattered, but if you could give me a force of men, I’d much rather join the assault.”
“Have you ever led an attack on a fortress, Timberline?”
“Well, no but . . .”
“Have you ever led a force of any kind?”
“Not per se, but . . .”
“This is not the time to break in. Logan is an experienced and accomplished general, and he’ll be in command. He’ll also call on his own forces from Angostura to supplement our troops.”
“If it’s troops you need, Rassendas can supply them.”
“Voltmeter is originally from Angostura, it turns out, so Angostura is taking a special interest in the case. You’ll have to wait for another battle.”
“I don’t have to lead an attack, sir. Just put me in the lines. Indeed, it would be an honor—um—yes, an honor to serve under Lord Logan’s command.”
“You will. As a supply officer. I’ll be honest, Timberline. Right now our supply system is a complete muddle. If you could just get it straightened out, we’ll be in your debt.”
Kevin gritted his teeth. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Good, good. I suspect my daughter will be less than pleased. I got the impression she rather likes you.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir.” Kevin wondered if it was too late to accept a drink.