The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Blasphemy!” he cried, “That this sour scum is named Scotch. In Hibernia this would be considered nothing more than vile excrement!” His face shook and he spit repeatedly. “Go on, brewer,” he commanded, “Go on, and take your putrid concoctions with you. I will never drink again!”

  The brewer bowed, then quickly spurred his horses forward. “What the devil?” he said to himself as he drove off, “Can it have been so bad? And so warm?” He shook his head. “Whatever became of it, that old boozer got what he deserved. And many times over at that!”

  Chapter 60

  The Floatings was still in the moonlight. No torches were allowed – on account of the densely packed ships – and the harbor was left without any light but the moon’s. Nothing could be heard but the breathing of the tide and the snoring of the groaning ships. The brewer drove his wagon down the first pier that reached into the harbor, at whose end a small cutter was waiting. A ramp connected its deck to the pier, where a shrouded man was waiting.

  “Ambiance!” the man called out.

  “Forever, and justice!” the brewer returned.

  “For all,” the man finished. Then, stepping forward, he said, “Your delivery is late, but it will do. Help me roll the cargo aboard, for I will pay only once it is in my possession.”

  “Very well.”

  The two unhooked the barrel from the wagon, and rolled it up the ramp. Inside, the four men were jostled around, but still made no noise. The Fardy brothers were indeed patient, when it came to matters of business. Once on deck, it was placed in a cargo room off the stern, prepared in advance. The cloaked man paid the brewer and the latter returned to his wagon and thence to his home. Before the other man had returned to the cargo room, the Fardys and Clifford had come out the trap door beneath and sat on the floor, slightly disorientated.

  “We are clear, then?” the black Fardy asked as the man returned.

  “Yes,” and the man pulled the cloak from his body, revealing himself. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

  “As always, my dear clerk,” and the two men grasped hands. “You have done well in this, and the king was satisfied with your service, as well. But, for now, are the men prepared?”

  “Yes, and growing impatient. The crews of the Timbers have the cables set, and the harbor authorities are expecting them to be leaving at dawn,” their faithful clerk answered.

  “So all that remains is to,” the black Fardy raised his left eyebrow rather than finishing the sentence. The others knew his meaning.

  “Yes,” the clerk said, “That is all. The Marins are ready to be sunk. All that remains now is to take command. Mutiny.”

  “Then we go, though I would not call it mutiny. For the Marins are our own by right!” the black Fardy rose and strode quickly out of the room, the others following.

  Above deck, the cutter was creaking through the harbor. Its sides were strewn with the nets of fishermen, and if any doubted their cover the smell of fish was embedded onto the planks. Several sailors made the crew, steering skillfully through the sea of wood and rope that was the Floatings. At times, it was so dense one could walk across as if on dry ground. Yet none of it was anchored: it was a dynamic city. There were no maps or charts, for every moment everything was entirely rearranged. Rather, it was a special skill the navigators of the Floatings had, which would guide them safely along. They were both quick and keen.

  The man presently at the rudder was one of these navigators. He was tall, with a strong build but a wiry frame. He was neither bearded nor clean-shaven, but rather had always the rubble of several days which he assiduously cultivated. His hair was dark by nature, but lightened by constant exposure to the sun, and of late had turned a light red. His eyes were too close together on the inside, but they were also large and were perfectly aligned with the outside of his face. Between them, his nose hung down, though it was neither blunt not fat; rather, it came down close to his face before suddenly veering outward to a sharp, medium point. He wore a hooded jacket over his shirt, though it was not stormy in the bay. Yet while the hood cast a shadow over his face, it did not dampen his eyes, which could not be overlooked. His left was the color of silvery moonlight, but his right as yellow as the sun.

  “Lionel,” the blond Fardy called him by name, “How long?”

  “There she is, already!” and he pointed to a Marin, riding low in the water. Beside it was a Timber, and to their left was another pair: Timber and Marin.

  “The signal, then, Lionel.”

  Lionel bent the handle of the rudder down, latching it to keep the ship’s course straight. Then he drew a pipe and match from the flap of his jacket and pretended to light the first with the second. He left the first match alight for three seconds, then blew it out and lit a second match for five seconds, lighting the pipe with it. A short time later, the same pattern was repeated by each of the nearby vessels: the Timbers and the Marins.

  “Good: they are ready,” the clerk said. Then, turning to the black Fardy, he continued, “My masters to the first, and Lionel, Clifford, and myself to the second?”

  “Of course. When it is over we will meet upon the first Timber?”

  “Patience,” Clifford laughed, bouncing his shaggy eyebrows, “For if all goes well, I will be sleeping in a feather bed ere twelve hours have passed.”

  “And may Gylain sleep below the sea!”

  As the blond Fardy said this last line, the cutter passed the first Marin. The Fardy brothers – each armed with a short sword – looked over at the edge of the deck to the Marin, but a few feet below them, as it was mostly submerged. Several men stood there. When they saw the Fardy brothers, they motioned for them to jump. It was no more than five feet down and as many over. They landed with a soft thud.

  “We are ready,” said the black Fardy.

  “And so are they,” the blond Fardy gestured to the cutter, which had already reached the second Marin.

  “Then we have only to capture the captain,” said one of the men, stepping forward from the shadows. He was short – no more than five foot – but strongly and stoutly built. He was evidently a dedicated geometrist, for his face was as round – proportionately – as his nose, his mouth, and his belly.

  “Timultin!” cried the blond Fardy, “We are at last reunited! How have these treacherous days befallen you? But patience, for we have no time for idle speech at the moment. Where is the captain?”

  “In her quarters: I am on watch.”

  “ Her quarters? By the devil, let us hope it is not the devil. But come, we cannot delay! You must watch us as we imprison her . Come, to the bridge.” With that, the black Fardy entered the Marin through the third story door – the first and second were already many yards beneath the surface.

  The door opened into a bare sealing room. They sealed themselves in and entered the main portion of the Marin, into a hallway lit only by covered lanterns. It stretched beyond sight in either direction, curving with the contour of the Marin, for it was the primary thoroughfare, connecting the various departments together. On the outer side there were no doors except the airlocks, but on the inner side doors were spaced an even three feet apart. Some led directly to rooms, others were steep, narrow stairways that tunneled into a deeper section of the floating mini-city.

  “She is in the captain’s room?”

  “Yes, when I left,”Timultin answered.

  “And her lieutenants?”

  “On the bridge.”

  “Then let us be off.”

  The black Fardy stepped forward and opened a nearby door, no different in appearance than the others: the walls of the hallway were wooden, as were the doors, latched only by a revolving finger. This door led into a cave-like staircase: only two and a half feet across, while the steps were made of a black chestnut wood, each a foot tall. It was a like a tunnel in the ground, for the only light was from lanterns hanging in the landings, where the stair reversed course and continued to descend. On these stairs, the party pierced into the h
eart of the Marin and soon came to another door, into which the staircase ended.

  “It is time,” but the black Fardy paused, listening to the silence. He trembled slightly.

  “We must do what we have come to do,” the blond Fardy raised himself with a dramatic gait. “And though I am a peaceful man – and above all, a patient one – I will not relent on the edge of the cliff, though I should die in the descent. For here we are, and there we need to be!” The others understood, under the influence of the same horrific atmosphere.

  Silence took the throne. At length, the black Fardy answered, “My patience grows thinner than my brother’s beard,” and the blond brother inadvertently stomped his toe.

  “Then we go,” said the brown Fardy, and he extended his arms as if to open the door. But before he could, the air was filled with a shrill scream from the bridge beyond. It was followed by a screaming laugh and a whipping sound, then by voices too faint to be intelligible. The three brothers looked to each other for an instant, then kicked open the door and stormed onto the bridge with their swords drawn.

  “The devil!” cried the black Fardy. “We have come, fair Celestine, and will not leave you to your torturers! Forward brothers, forward, and let us end the curse of Saxony forever!”

  Chapter 61

  “Celestine!” Alfonzo whispered in the darkness of the temple ruins, “Celestine, will you not have a thought for yourself? If not for yourself, than for me; for I am weak.”

  “Yet I will not be persuaded, and do not play with the winds if you will not be rustled by them. She is my sister. I must go to her. It is not my choice to make.”

  “When so many have died to free you, would you return yourself voluntarily to Gylain’s power? Think what he would do, in his anger.”

  “You misjudge him, Alfonzo. He had chances, but did not take them; for if he is evil, he is not cruel.”

  Alfonzo looked to the ruins around him and then to the darkness of the encircling forest. “You say he is not cruel? What is not felt is easily forgotten, perhaps, but what of your father and myself? Torture does not flee the memory like courage does the heart.”

  Celestine’s countenance clouded. “My father’s fate was by my mother’s hand; and Gylain rebuked those who tortured you, sending a doctor to heal you.”

  “Even God rebukes the devil, even as he uses him for his own purposes.”

  “Yet Gylain is not the devil and you are not God.” She paused, breathing on tip-toe. “Forgive me, Alfonzo, but I will go. If I am to be strong, I cannot be weak with my sister. For though she is shadowed by the past she is not shadowed by betrayal.”

  Alfonzo did not turn his countenance from the forest. It was late morning and the council had just been completed. Above the forest that came in close on every side was the sun, beginning its daily march with its usual soggy-eyed approach. The buildings of the long forgotten city were made some of cobblestone and others of a white limestone; but in the harsh conditions of the forest, nothing remained but scattered debris. Nothing grew within the circle of the ruins and the ground was flat and barren as an ocean of rock. Only the central tower still stood and even its top had collapsed onto the lower section.

  After a moment, Alfonzo soaked up strength from the immutable scene in which he was immersed. “So be it, Celestine: go, if you must. But as much as I am yours in love, I am Atilta’s in duty. If you are captured I will not rescue you again, though by it I am shown to be a coward.” He paused. “Cruel fate! Men say we fight for our women and our children; yet who must be sacrificed ere the end?”

  There was silence, as Celestine softly kissed her husband. Neither spoke, though their eyes courted for a moment. Then she stood and left, with a bundle in hand she had prepared the night before while the others slept. Alfonzo had seen it when he woke and his eyes could not part with it all during the council. She left. She did not even turn for a parting glance. Instead, she climbed the rope ladder to the Treeway and began walking northwest, to Eden.

  The sun came down at a gentle angle and as it passed through the cloudy foliage it gave a hazy, green light to the leafy tunnel. On either side the trees let down their uncombed tresses, brushing away Celestine’s weariness as she went. The ancient trees’ branches were muscled and as thick as the trunk of a lesser tree. Their leaves, however, cut a contrast: where one was ancient, the other was young; where one was steadfast, the other blew with the wind. There, one upon the other, were nature’s oldest children and her youngest, the old and the new joined together. Yet they did not break apart, for the one was not wine nor the other wineskin.

  Celestine traveled the living clouds for a day, entering the gates of Eden several hours before the Fardys arrived. She came clad as a simple peasant – homely in dress and in bearing – and no one lowered themselves to question her.

  ******

  “I am not your slave, Gylain, nor are my armies. If you wish my aid, than you must seek it as an ally, not a lover.”

  “Yet we are both, since my heart and my confidence are equally yours. My life is given to you.”

  “Indeed? Or is it given against my father?” Cybele flushed. She quickly added, in a whisper, “No, do not answer! I do not want to know.” She paused again, then, “For I am no different, though I am a woman as well: seeking love while seeking power.”

  “One cannot have both,” Gylain smiled.

  “What is power but the hatred of freedom? And hate and love are not at war. Each is a way of pleasing oneself: the first through self-service, the second self-sacrifice. I have power, and thus hate; but I also have a bosom, and thus love.”

  “The contrast!” Gylain moaned, “Without hate you cannot enjoy love; and without tyranny the people cannot enjoy their freedom.”

  “Is that your sleeping potion, then?”

  “Come, you jest with me.” He sighed, seeing she did not. “We are creatures of analogy, and we can only know things by comparing them against others. To those who live in luxury, only greater luxury can bring momentary contentment. For those in poverty, a slight reprieve is paradise. And so it is with freedom: it must always grow more abundant, lest it does not satisfy. And when it flows too freely those who wield it self-destruct, for in freeing men you also free their evil. The rebels fight for freedom, but with it Atilta would subside, even as Rome before her. So I give them tyranny, and tyranny gives them both power and freedom.”

  “And you love them as well?”

  “I love no one, for love is emotion.”

  “Indeed,” she smiled, “And there can be no emotion in the affairs of state: for which reason I will not be played as a pawn.”

  “War is dangerous, for a woman of beauty. The queen of Saxony you are, my Cybele, but your mother you are not.”

  “Nor am I yours, outright.”

  “No?”

  Cybele pressed her lips. “I will accompany the fleet.”

  Gylain closed his eyes and stood a statue. Then, with a pleasant smile, “Of course, Cybele, and for that reason I have prepared a Marin to be your headquarters during the campaign.”

  “My trust is not placed in vain.”

  “I know.”

  “As in everything else. I will occupy it immediately.”

  “You will find it in good repair,” and Gylain turned to the Floatings. They were walking on the inner wall of the castle, fifty feet above the bustling streets. In the distance, the harbor city could be seen.

  “Left that way by the Fardy brothers, then? A shame, for they amused me with their foolishness.” She paused. “How can idiots become wealthy? Were they not born poor?”

  “Above all, yes: the sons of a glider merchant. Yet they are not fools, as you say. For how do we judge a man’s worth, but by his actions? And those by their results? The Fardy brothers have done more than many who are thought wise, as if placed by feudal fate to humble me: to show me that before God I have no more power than three bumbling idiots. They are fools, you say, but fate does not discount them; and fate is all that ma
tters in such things. Vitam regit Fortuna, non Sapientia .”

  “ Stulti timent Fortunam, sapientes ferunt ,” she retorted.

  He sighed, as if looking upon foolishness in wisdom’s garb. “To whom it is not given, it is not known,” and he was silent.

  Seeing Gylain eloping with his own mind, she bowed. “Tomorrow, then, for I must prepare my affairs.” He did not seem to hear, so she left and walked briskly to the inner courtyard.

  Cybele was sharply beautiful in the morning light, a sword into the hearts of man. She wore a simple silk doublet with trousers beneath. It was not the dress of a queen of court, but she herself was not one, either. Her arms and neck were bare, her head covered only by her cloudy hair with its slight curls: enough that it was not wispy, yet not so much as to make it reckless. Her face was long, her features proportionate. Her nose bridged between her curious eyes and her storm-cloud lips, blossoming into a round bell flower near her mouth. She was tall, even for a man, and her form august and inaccessible. She was firm in her bearing, while not pedantic in her movement; accented in speech, while not vainly rhetorical. In a word, she valued substance over perception: cultivating the former without excuse, while not abdicating it in reaction to the latter.

  Her carriage was brought out: narrow above while hollow and rounded below. It was at once carriage and boat, and could change from one to the other without stopping: Atiltian built, rather than Saxonian, since Atiltian horses could swim as easily as they could run. The rails swiveled on an axis not far from the coachman, allowing him to detach them for rowing – in the same fashion as the Lipels of the Floatings. Indeed, the carriage was but an elongated Lipel with wheels.

  It was thus that Cybele crossed the harbor without leaving her carriage. She was also lost in the maze of her own mind during the journey, and only came to as they abutted the landing platform on the first floor, which was then above water. She leapt out and hurriedly entered the Marin, asking the short officer, Timultin, to take her to the captain’s room. He did, and she did not speak along the way. When they reached the bridge – adjacent to the captain’s room – several of her officers were assembled, taking charge of the crew.