Bad Prince Charlie

by Moore, John

  Directly across the lake, in the shadow of the steepest peak, were the domes of the Temple of Matka, flanked by coffee shops. For untold centuries it sat empty, abandoned, and ruined. Then fifty years ago the Cult of Matka, whose monks worshipped a mysterious seeress, suddenly appeared and moved in. The young sorcerer Thessalonius, who had set up shop in Damask about the same time, began to pay visits to their high priestess. Word spread of her amazing prophetic powers. Her fame grew. Now, despite the steepness of the road, a steady stream of pilgrims made their way to the temple and up the stairs.

  They let their horses drink from the lake. Charlie pulled a sheaf of weather predictions from his pouch and studied them. They did not make him happy. He looked up, toward the ridge that separated Noile from Damask. “Pollocks, what does that cloud look like to you?”

  The older man smiled, as if at a favorite memory. “Well, Your Highness, I would say it looks like an elephant.”

  “What? No, I meant . . .”

  “Or an aardvark. Yes, it has a snout like an aardvark.”

  “I’m asking if . . .”

  “But it’s backed like a walrus.”

  “Pollocks!” snapped the prince. “What are you going on about? I just want to know if you think it’s going to rain.”

  “Oh. Pardon me, Your Highness. I thought you were playing a game.” Pollocks studied the cloud. “No, I don’t think it is going to rain. At least not in Damask.”

  “I feared as much. And try to stay focused, will you? I’m not a child or an idiot. We haven’t played that game since I was six years old.”

  “You were much more fun to be around then.”

  “I’m sure.” Charlie turned to study the mountain that lay between himself and Damask. The smooth, green slope held a single scar, not yet healed over with vegetation, where the dirt had been scraped away to expose the rock. Periodically someone would get the idea of diverting the Organza River to Damask. Charlie shook his head. The hardest chisels bounced off that granite, and there were miles of it to tunnel through. All the resources of the country could not bring the river to Damask. He looked up suddenly. “Who is this?”

  Three men were riding up the road from Damask. They were not pilgrims. They ignored the temple. Instead they rode directly for Charlie in a disturbingly purposeful way. All three men were young, only a little older than Charlie, and they were stylishly, almost foppishly dressed. Even their horses had braided manes. But there was nothing foppish about the swords they wore, or their grim expressions. Two of the men hung back, letting the third, a man with a pale complexion and a ponytail, take the lead.

  “Oh dear,” said Pollocks. “Trouble.”

  “He looks familiar,” said Charlie. “Who is he?”

  “Young Albemarle Gagnot. The son of Lord Gagnot. The son of the man you jailed for selling the grain reserves.”

  “Somehow I don’t think he is here to plead his father’s case.”

  “I expect that is exactly what he is here to do. And probably somewhat more forcefully than we would prefer. Your Highness . . .” Pollocks took the young regent’s arm. “I think, with a bit of diplomacy on your side, we can salvage something from this situation. Young Gagnot is an officer in the Damask Horse Brigade. And he’s quite a popular officer. This is a very influential troop—all the wealthy young men of the city are either in it or vying to get in it. Albemarle would be a good man to have on your side.”

  “And a dangerous man to have as an enemy?”

  “Most decidedly, Sire.” Here Pollocks hesitated, then pushed on. “You may not be aware, Your Highness, that the people of Damask feel that your rule is—how shall I put it—a bit heavy-handed. After all, corruption has long been a part of Damask politics. They were not expecting you to sweep the floor as clean as this.” The three men on horseback were quite close now. “I’m not saying there is cause for an uprising, Your Highness, but if there was . . .”

  “Gagnot would be the one to lead it?”

  “He could certainly bring a lot of armed men against you.”

  “Thank you for that evaluation, Pollocks,” said Charlie. “Now it’s clear to me how I should treat this man.”

  “Ah, good.” Pollocks let out a breath of relief.

  The prince watched Gagnot dismount, leaving the other two men behind, still on horseback. They favored Charlie with uneasy, tentative smiles, but Gagnot’s expression was one of clear distaste, as though Charlie was a fly he had found in his soup. Charlie had seen that look before, on men born into wealth and privilege, and women of extreme beauty, when forced to deal with someone they considered a social inferior. Gagnot stopped a dozen feet in front of the prince, but did not look at his face. Instead, he addressed his words to a point somewhere over Charlie’s shoulder. “Your Highness.” Here Gagnot paused to adjust his gloves. “I will be brief. I insist that my father be released immediately.”

  Pollocks leaned close to Charlie. “Reassure him, Your Highness. He’s an arrogant young man, certain to defend his family’s honor. Explain that his father is merely being held for investigation, that you’re sure nothing will come of it, that he’s being treated well . . .”

  “Gagnot,” interrupted the prince loudly. “Your father is a criminal and a thief. I intend to see him tried and hanged.”

  Pollocks put his face in his hands.

  Gagnot’s face instantly flashed from disdain to anger. His hand went to his sword. The prince ignored this and stepped forward, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat, his hands well away from his own sword. “Lord Gagnot is a disgrace to his king, to his country, and to his class.” He stopped in front of the younger man. “Have I made myself clear, Abe?”

  Gagnot was not an original speaker. He spoke as if he was reciting from a book. “You have offended me, sir.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I say I am offended, sir. Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Uh-huh. Right,” said Charlie. The question sounded strange and stilted, but Charlie knew what Gagnot was up to. He was following an ancient formula called “giving the lie.” It allowed him to challenge Charlie to a duel while still claiming to be the injured party. Charlie had no patience for it. “Forget it, Abe,” he said. “I am too busy to play such games.”

  Gagnot scowled at him. “You cannot deny me satisfaction, Your Highness. You are not a gentleman by birth, but even a bastard king holds noble rank. You can’t claim I am above your class.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of making any such claim.”

  “Don’t disgrace yourself by demanding some arcane weapon, either. You have your sword and I have mine.” He turned toward the two seated men. “You have met my friend Dunswitch, I believe.” The rider on the right nodded to Charlie. “Lord DeCecco has agreed to be your second, should you ask for one. The man on the left inclined his head to Gagnot and Charlie. “He is not related to me in any way, and has no business dealings with me or my family.” Gagnot faced forward again. “So you see—oof.”

  He had made a mistake. Those who had seen Bad Prince Charlie in action knew better than to take their eyes off him. He hit Gagnot in the pit of the stomach, causing the young noble to double over. A second punch to the head knocked him to the ground. Gagnot cursed and spun over on his back, reaching for his waist. Charlie kicked him in the side. Gagnot curled up in pain. The Bad Prince did not fight cleanly.

  DeCecco hesitated, but Dunswitch spurred his horse forward. In an instant Charlie stepped back from the fallen man, and had his own sword out. “Get back,” he snapped. The rider stopped his horse. “So it is a duel you want? Let me remind you of something. A duel is an affair between gentlemen, to settle a point of honor. I have no honor and care nothing for it. I said I will not duel and I will not.” He paused, to collect the hostile looks of the other men. And then gave them his own grim smile. “But I will fight.”

  He feigned a slash at the rider, causing his horse to rear up, then turned back to Gagnot. His opponent was on hands and knees, trying to clear his head.
“Get up, Abe. We’re going to fight. No seconds, no rules, no challenge, no field of honor, no Code Duello. Just a plain, ordinary fight with swords.”

  Gagnot rose with unexpected swiftness and drew his sword. But Pollocks inserted himself between the two men. “Lads, lads! You cannot fight here, nor duel, either. You are in Noile. You have no rights in this land. Put away your swords, or we’ll all be jailed.”

  “Tchah.” Gagnot tried to step around Pollocks, who kept himself between the combatants. “We’re alone here. No one is watching.”

  “You are on the grounds of the High Priestess of Matka,” warned Pollocks. “She sees everything. She knows everything.” He pointed to the temple complex across the lake. “Her power is great, her influence is without limit. We dare not violate the peace of this sacred ground.”

  Everyone except Charlie looked toward the temple. Dunswitch and DeCecco exchanged glances. Even the horses gave nervous snorts. Gagnot kept his sword up, but stopped trying to circle Pollocks.

  “Put it down,” said Pollocks. “You can’t help your father if you are in prison.”

  That was enough to end the fight. Perhaps Charlie’s antagonists let themselves be persuaded, or perhaps they were reluctant to risk injuring the elderly man, or perhaps they merely succumbed to a quite natural disinclination to charge onto a naked blade. “The old man is right,” said Dunswitch. He rode up to Gagnot and leaned over. “A fight here will gain you nothing. There are better ways to rid ourselves of this bastard king.” Behind him, DeCecco nodded.

  Gagnot frowned, but eventually thrust his sword back into its scabbard. Dunswitch brought him his horse. Tight-lipped, he climbed into the saddle. Charlie, ignoring them all once the challenge was met, had already mounted his steed and was riding away without a backward glance. Pollocks hastened to catch up with him, guiding his horse close enough to grab Charlie’s arm. “Your Highness, do not let them ride off like this. A generous gesture now would do much to help affect a reconciliation later. Otherwise, I truly fear that these men can contribute to a revolt against your rule.”

  Charlie looked thoughtful. “Do you really think that will happen, Pollocks?”

  “I do.”

  The prince turned his horse around. “Gagnot!” he called. The other three riders stopped to listen. “Gagnot, it is my intention to seize your estates and sell them to pay off your father’s debt. You will be ruined. Consider yourself warned.”

  Gagnot’s back stiffened. He started to turn around, but the other two men seized his arms and whispered to him. Eventually they rode off without looking back.

  Pollocks was making groaning noises into his beard. He looked at Charlie, wild-eyed. “Are you mad? To create an enemy like that? You must be mad!”

  “Nothing like a walrus,” said Charlie mildly.

  “What?”

  “That cloud. You said it looked like a walrus. It doesn’t look anything like a walrus.”

  In spite of himself, Pollocks looked up. “Well, of course it doesn’t look like a walrus now! When we started talking it looked like a walrus. Very like a walrus.”

  Charlie was riding again toward the temple. The sun was over the mountains now, giving the gray domes a silvery sheen. “Look, there are coffee shops. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup.”

  “No coffee for you! You’re irritable enough already.”

  “Hey, we’re in Noile now. We can get chicken salad. Or even a custard.” They left their horses with a stable hand and joined a line of tourists. Charlie hid his regal insignia. Although he had no authority here, he wanted to see how the common people were being fleeced. “So what does this High Priestess look like? Have you ever seen her?”

  “I had that privilege when I accompanied your father the king on trips here. Exotic, mysterious, and beautiful are words I would use to describe her, both in appearance and in temperament. But you will soon find out for yourself.”

  “When is my appointment?”

  “I have not made one for you.”

  “What? We came all this way and they don’t even know we are here?”

  “Rest assured, Your Highness, they know we are here. Surely you would not think her much of a seeress if she could not predict a visit from a regent prince.”

  “I won’t think her much of a seeress whatever she does. When it comes right down to it, you know, I’m a skeptical sort of guy.” Charlie hesitated before going on, realizing that a man who had just spent the previous evening talking to a ghost might have difficulty establishing himself as a skeptic. He hedged a little bit. “Okay, I’ve heard the stories. People say she knew things about them that she couldn’t have known, things they didn’t know themselves.”

  “Those aren’t mere stories.”

  “Come on, Pollocks, you know that most of that stuff is a swindle. They just tell you stuff you want to hear. Or they give predictions that are so general they could apply to anyone.”

  They reached the front of the line. Pollocks shook out a container of yarrow stalks. A monk studied them and handed him a slip of paper. It read, Address your problems early to obtain the best results.

  “Good advice,” said Pollocks.

  “Common sense,” said Charlie. “That’s the soothsayer’s stock in trade. Either vague generalities or something incomprehensible. That’s my preference, actually. If someone is going to give me silly fortunes, I like them to be the totally cryptic kind. You know, stuff like, ‘the wise search their hearts for inner strength’ or ‘the path of despair leads to the river of wisdom.’ ”

  “Cryptic sayings often gain meaning as one gains experience.”

  “Hey, that’s good. You could write your own rice paper slips.”

  “Why don’t you try one, Your Highness?” Pollocks led the prince to a fountain, where small, hollow clay ducks were tumbling over a waterfall, then bobbing up in a turbulent pool. Tourists were standing around the edge of the fountain, tossing in coins, and trying to grab a clay duck. The area around the fountain was ankle deep in shards of broken pottery.

  “How do you choose?”

  “Make an offering to the High Priestess, Your Highness, then just grab one. It’s totally random.”

  Charlie flipped a coin into the pool and quickly scooped up a clay duck. He placed it on the ground, then smashed the duck with his boot. Bending over, he found the little slip of rice paper that had been inside.

  “ ‘The wise search their hearts for inner strength,’” he read. “ ‘You have an appointment with the High Priestess at noon. The monk to your left will lead you to the High Priestess. Please be prompt.’ ”

  Charlie looked to his left. There was a man in monk’s robes only a few feet away. He looked at the fountain again. Dozens of clay ducks were passing over the waterfall every minute. Baffled, he past the slip to Pollocks, who looked at it and clucked his tongue.

  “Noon,” he said. “I wonder if the meeting will include lunch.”

  Charlie walked all the way around the fountain. “There is no way a particular duck could have been directed at me. And the slip contained the exact phrase I just told you. And even if someone had overheard me and taken down my words, that clay duck must have been fired days in advance. Impossible.”

  “The High Priestess sees all. Not all seers are charlatans, Your Highness. Only yesterday you desired Thessalonius to predict the weather.”

  “You only meet one man like Thessalonius in a lifetime. And he never made predictions like this. This is just a conjuring trick, Pollocks. I don’t know how they do it, but it’s still a trick. Here.” The prince extracted another coin from his pouch, looked around until he was sure no one was watching him, then casually dropped it in and grabbed another duck. “Let’s see if they can do it again.” Pollocks followed him as he carried the duck away from the fountain, crouched down, and cracked it on the pavement. He read the slip and shook his head.

  “What?” said Pollocks.

  “‘No, you won’t be having lunch. Just some wine and a cheese plate,’ ” C
harlie read aloud.

  Pollocks looked at the paper. “It also says that ‘the path of despair leads to the river of wisdom.’ ”

  “Yes, I caught that.”

  “And we still have some time until noon. Good. Come, Your Highness. You must see the ceiling of the Great Hall. It is magnificent.”

  He led Charlie down a granite walk, flanked with small, bubbling fountains and flowering olive trees. They went up a broad stairway to a colonnaded entrance, but there had to buy tickets and stand in line before they could enter the Great Hall. Charlie had heard, of course, of the ceiling of the Great Hall of the Temple of Matka, the masterwork of the artist Domenicelli. Pollocks told him even more about Domenicelli, his humble beginnings, the stroke of fortune that earned him the commission to decorate the huge domed ceiling of the enormous Great Hall, the years of planning, and the construction of the special scaffolding so that Domenicelli could work almost single-handedly. He concluded with a description of the acclaim Domenicelli received when his masterwork was revealed to the public, finishing his story just as he and Charlie reached the door. “This is it. The masterwork of a master artist. There is nothing like it in the Twenty Kingdoms.” Pollocks pushed open the door. “Magnificent, is it not?”

  Charlie craned his neck. “It’s wallpaper?”

  “Exactly. It’s hard enough just to do a flat wall. Can you imagine how difficult it was to wallpaper the inside of a dome? Cutting and pasting the strips so that the pattern matches on every single edge, putting them all up without a single bubble or crinkle? A lot of decorators would have just given up and painted the damn thing.”

  “Right.”

  “He didn’t waste any, either. When it was all finished he only had two rolls left over, and he was able to return those to the store and get a credit slip.”

  “Let’s go see the High Priestess,” said Charlie.

  They found their guide, still standing by the fountain. He led them back to the Great Hall, but this time they went through a side door, bypassing the line of tourists, and down a short flight of stairs, where another burly monk guarded a thick door. He consulted a list.