The King's Justice: Two Novellas

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  I considered it fortunate for the realm that my Queen’s own assurance, penetration, and subtlety were in no way diminished by the challenge of Baron Indolent’s presence.

  They must have exchanged moments earlier the requisite courtesies of such an occasion—inquiries regarding health, personal satisfaction, and so forth. While I strove to master my labored breathing, they continued their colloquy.

  “My lord Baron,” my Queen now said with no more than the most delicate hint of tartness, “your entrance is peremptory.” She might have said presumptuous. “I did not summon you. Nor is this the hour when it is my custom to receive my subjects.”

  Only then did I recognize that I had no notion whether the time was day or night. I had been entirely consumed by fretting.

  “Your Majesty,” he explained, “I came when I was informed of the attempt upon your daughter’s life. I confess, however, that I did not travel in haste. I am not precipitate in such matters. The circumstance demanded thought. Nonetheless I am now before you, hoping as any loyal subject must that you will profit from both my tidings and my counsel.”

  Inimica Phlegathon deVry gifted the man with a smile to melt stone, had stone either heart or loins. “And do you conceive, my lord Baron, that I am in need of tidings or counsel?”

  “Certainly you are not, Your Majesty,” he replied, his assurance undimmed. “Yet I will wager my head that you will be glad of both.”

  “Then do so,” she returned with an air of graciousness that belied her command. “I am unaccustomed to intrusion, both upon my person and upon the affairs of the realm.”

  “I will, Your Majesty.” His own smile conveyed the curious impression of a pounce held in reserve. “To comply, however, I must first speak of Baron Venery.”

  My Queen awaited him with amusement on her lips and flames in her gaze.

  “It will not surprise you, I think,” Thrysus Indolent continued, “to hear that he has spoken of your proffered hand—the same hand which you have offered to me. As you are doubtless aware, Praylix Venery is a treacherous friend—and an invaluable foe. His mind knows nothing that his mouth does not speak. If the other barons remain ignorant of your proposals, it is only because they do not heed him.

  “For myself, I am untroubled. I comprehend your gambit, Your Majesty, and consider it wise. Also I am confident of your eventual determination.”

  My Queen lifted a flawless eyebrow. “Are you indeed? Then you are as discerning as I have always deemed you.”

  Baron Indolent nodded. “A question,” he ventured, “if you will permit it ere I say more. May I trust that you have proposed wedlock to each of the barons—proposed, and been accepted?”

  While I strained to hear underlying significances, her manner revealed only that she remained secure in the effect of her loveliness—or perhaps in her comprehension of the Baron. “Trust what you wish,” she replied, unconcerned. “My policies are my own.” A moment later, she deigned to add, “The character of Praylix Venery is known to me.”

  Her visitor’s glances appeared to flash. “Then I will say no more on the matter,” he conceded, calm as moonlight. “Rather I will hazard another query. Have you been made aware that both Baron Plinth and Baron Estobate are raising armies?”

  I found myself unable to draw breath despite my recent exertions.

  My Queen again lifted an eyebrow. “Are they indeed? And if they are, what is that to me? Doubtless they intend to assail each other over some petty affront. I will be displeased—but I will not forbid them to shed each other’s blood.”

  “I believe otherwise, Your Majesty,” returned the Baron promptly. “I believe that they will unite their forces to assail you.”

  “Ha!” Her scorn betrayed no taint of doubt. “They are not men enough for the attempt. They have not the daring.”

  Thrysus Indolent advanced a step. He held up a hand to caution her as though he had cause to suspect that he might be overheard. In a lowered voice, he avowed, “You discount them too readily, Your Majesty. They are both wrathful men, albeit in divergent fashions, and wrath may drive them to a daring which would daunt ordinary courage.” Before his sovereign could interrupt, he continued, “Also when I speak of raising armies I do not refer to Indemnie’s customary motley of peasants and pitchforks. Rather I speak of trained men well armed and armored, with fine sabers and halberds in their hands, helms of iron, and hauberks of boiled leather. I speak of a hundred such men at Glare Estobate’s command, and nearer one hundred and fifty obedient to Jakob Plinth’s will.

  “Such numbers may appear small, but they are too great for the lesser purpose of avenging some petty affront. Indeed, there is no purpose in the realm large enough to justify such force—no purpose other than to overwhelm the Domicile itself. Estobate and Plinth mean to put you to the sword”—he paused long enough to underscore his assertion—“Your Majesty.”

  My Queen’s smile now held less of ravishment, more of calculation. “My lord Baron, I admire your certainty, though it may mislead you. Let us suppose briefly that your imaginings are not mere vapor. I have studied ancient treatises on warfare, and I know my house. Two hundred and fifty men however trained and armed cannot carry the Domicile, though my guards number no more than a score. Such armies cannot breach my walls.”

  Thrysus Indolent shrugged as though the issue were trivial. “They have no need to breach your walls, Your Majesty. They will starve you out. Sources of water you have, but your stores of food cannot endure without the isle’s largesse.”

  In response, my Queen’s shrug mocked her visitor’s. I was scarce able to credit my ears as she answered, “Then I must urge you, my lord Baron, to raise an army of your own. Quirk Panderman and, yes, even Praylix Venery must do likewise. You will all need an abundance of men trained and armed. If you do not commit them to my defense, you will require them for your own. When Jakob Plinth and Glare Estobate have put me to the sword, as you suggest, they will turn on you. They must, lest you become the blade that bites their backs.”

  Though I was badly shaken, I did not miss Thrysus Indolent’s reply. His act of surprise—indeed, of alarm—might have appeared genuine, had it not been contradicted by his ready grin and eager gaze. “Then I am lost, Your Majesty,” he claimed without visible discomfort. “We are lost. I am no man for warfare. Panderman cannot concentrate, and Venery cannot rule his thoughts. If you do not assuage Plinth and Estobate—if you do not find some means to deflect their wrath—Indemnie itself is lost.”

  And still he conveyed the sense that he was prepared to pounce—and that he had not yet done so. He must, I thought in a scramble of words, he must have felt certain that his sovereign had already been apprised of raised armies and wrath. He must be confident of her spies. Therefore— I endeavored to swallow my heart. Therefore he must also recognize that her air of uninformed unconcern was mere charade, a masque performed to lull his deeper purposes.

  A dangerous man, this Baron. His purposes were too deep for my shallow penetration. Why did he pretend to accept her pretense that she was blind to her own peril? What gain was there for him in the revelation of known secrets? In sum, why was he here?

  For her part, however, my Queen was neither daunted nor doubtful. “Nonetheless,” she stated with some asperity, “it must be done. If you do not caution me against Baron Plinth and Baron Estobate frivolously, it must be done. If you do not provide for my defense or your own, I must conclude that you give no credence to your own suspicions.

  “And in that case, my lord Baron, I must also conclude that you have yet to name the true purpose of your presence.”

  Still Thrysus Indolent did not hesitate. His assurance acknowledged no rebuff. With a conspiratorial air—the air of a man who commonly spoke so as to foil eavesdroppers—he answered, “Your Majesty, your discernment may misguide you. I remain confident that I have not judged Baron Plinth and Baron Estobate unjustly. Yet I have
no cause to question the worth of your spies. For that reason, I surmise that you seek to divert yourself at my expense. Thus I have no means by which to demonstrate my loyalty, both to you and to Indemnie, other than by still greater daring. I have spoken honestly. Hoping to sway you, I will hazard a more perilous honesty.”

  “Then do so,” she instructed him, now without graciousness.

  Though he held her gaze, his eyes appeared to continue their dark dance as he pounced at last. “Your Majesty, I am responsible for the recent attempt upon your daughter’s life.”

  “You?” There my Queen betrayed true surprise. “Not Jakob Plinth?”

  Indolent made a dismissive gesture. “Baron Plinth’s rectitude condones no subterfuge. He is blameless. Yet I do not scruple to assert that I also am blameless. Or rather, I will assert that my purpose in the attempt was not blameworthy.”

  Outfacing her scrutiny, he said, “Your Majesty, I state my case thus. Turmoil afflicts Indemnie. So much you will surely acknowledge. But any turmoil that endangers you must also imperil the succession. Therefore no good will come of our efforts, should Baron Venery, Baron Panderman, and I exert ourselves for our own protection—or should we fail in yours—unless your daughter is worthy of rule—aye, and proven worthy. That was my purpose.”

  While my Queen studied every shift of muscle, every fleeting expression, every intake of breath, Thrysus Indolent presented his defense.

  “By various means, none in themselves honest,” he admitted as though he sought to appear innocent as water, “I made arrangement that a unique powder be mingled with your daughter’s wine, for her preferences are well known.” So saying, he confessed—albeit indirectly—that his own spies were as skilled as hers. For myself, I began to fear his more so. “For those whose blood holds no admixture of our distant ancestors’ gifts, this powder might well prove fatal. However, I did not fear that outcome. Your daughter is your daughter. A portion of her blood is yours. And on one of mixed blood, my powder would inflict no more than a fleeting distress. To one of pure blood, however, my powder would occasion no conceivable discomfort. Rather it would provide a pleasing elevation of the senses. A pleasing elevation of life, Your Majesty.

  “I sought no harm to your daughter,” he avowed. “I desired only to prove her worthy of command over all the realm—and to do so covertly so that she, and you, and Indemnie might have no cause to fear a subsequent public demonstration. And I did not speak to you ere I risked my test because—” He made a show of chagrin and honesty. “Well, because, Your Majesty, I had no wish to incur your displeasure unnecessarily. I could imagine that you might take my head without heeding my reasons.

  “Sadly”—now he feigned regret, though he could not mask his more private anticipations—“I did not foresee the expedient of a taster. Also I was but recently informed that an earlier attempt had been made upon your daughter’s life. Had I know of that treachery, I would not have undertaken my own small machination.

  “Your Majesty, my ignorance of that earlier attempt accounts for the insistence of my present wish to speak with you. Now I await your mercy—or your ire, should you deem my purposes blameworthy.”

  I could not fathom him. To the extent that his defense was honest, his ploy appeared comparatively harmless—certainly less fatal than a knife in the night. Yet his credibility, suspect at best, was undermined by an air of satisfaction that he did not trouble to conceal.

  And my Queen clearly thought as I did, though her insight surpassed mine. “Indolent,” she replied, her voice a silken blade, “I find truth in few of your fine speeches, cause for offense in many. However, your observation that Indemnie is in turmoil is simple fact. And my keen desire to put you to the sword—to have you beheaded after much torture—will achieve only an increase of turmoil. For that reason, and for that reason alone, I will not heed the counsels of my ire. Be careful now that you do not sway me against my better self. I will have truth or blood.

  “What cause justifies your doubt that my daughter’s lineage is pure?”

  Oblivious to her threat, or perhaps merely unalarmed by it, the Baron positively gleamed. “The simple fact, Your Majesty,” he replied at once, “that your daughter’s father was murdered. His purity cannot now be examined.”

  “And you call it credible,” she retorted like a woman stung, “that I would endanger the succession by bedding a man lacking the requisite heritage?”

  Thrysus Indolent shrugged again. As though he considered his rectitude the equal of Baron Plinth’s, beyond doubt or aspersion, he answered, “I call his death murder. So much is commonly known. But more knowledge is needed, and there is none. Do you ask me to imagine that a woman who offers marriage to five barons would scruple to bed any man who chanced to appear desirable?”

  Tension filled the boudoir until the very lamps appeared to flicker. The insult of his retort filled my bowels with tremors. As for my Queen, her tone hardened, and a dire fury burned in her eyes. “You dare to provoke me? I perceive now that you are certain of my restraint, as you have been from the first. However, your cunning betrays you. Alter the terms of your query. Do you imagine that a woman who did not scruple to shed her daughter’s father’s blood would fear to shed yours?”

  So plain a threat might suffice to unman any of the barons, yet Thrysus Indolent’s daring did not falter. “Answer my question, Your Majesty, and I will answer yours.”

  Briefly I imagined her voice raised to summon guards. However, she did not call out. Rather her manner became both resigned and rigid.

  “My lord Baron,” she announced in a tone of extreme self-mastery, “I will not partner with you in this gavotte of deception and falseness. Stripped of its obfuscations, your defense rests upon Indemnie’s turmoil, which I have chosen to call simple fact. I will have one simple fact from you to counter your affronts.

  “You assert that a unique powder in my daughter’s wine would serve to gauge the purity of her blood. Name that powder.” Unbidden, the word chrism came to my mind, though I could not account for it. “If it has no name,” she continued, “tell me of its composition, its preparation. I will suffer no further hazard to my daughter until I have tested the efficacy of your powder upon myself.”

  The man had pounced. Now he acted a dignified reluctance. “Your Majesty, I cannot. That secret is not mine to reveal. You must glean the knowledge you seek from another. You will not have it from me.”

  Thus he pretended honor.

  With sweetness and venom commingled, my Queen countered, “Not to save your head? Not to spare yourself the attentions of my torturer?”

  Did I perceive a suggestion of concern in the Baron’s mien? I could not be certain of it.

  “If I must experience agony and death,” he offered with seeming hesitancy, “now is as good a time as any, and better than some.” Then he rallied his assurance. “However, I am confident that you will not harm me. You dare not. Were your threats more than mere vapor, four barons would have no recourse but to rise against you. And when you were slain, the condition of your daughter’s blood would not suffice to ward her. My fellow barons would see your line entirely ended.”

  I repeat that Baron Thrysus Indolent was a dangerous man. Only now did I begin to grasp the magnitude of the peril that he presented to my Queen, and to the realm. His innocence—and indeed his honor—I discounted altogether. Yet I could not dismiss his appraisal of armies. I had heard a multiplicity of threats, some perhaps imagined, some certainly feigned. Nevertheless the danger of armies had substance.

  “Enough, my lord Baron.” On the instant, Inimica Phlegathon deVry became imperious and calm. Though she did not condescend to raise her voice, her command was unquestionable. “You may depart. We have acknowledged the absence of scruples. You will feel no surprise, then, that I do not scruple to conclude that Baron Plinth and Baron Estobate ready themselves for war at your instigation. Now be gone while you remain
able to obey.”

  Thrysus Indolent appeared to contemplate some protest. If he did so, however, her abrupt quiet dissuaded him. Apparently he had discernment enough to recognize that he was not the only dangerous personage present. Making a hasty leg, he withdrew like a man both routed and jubilant.

  For some moments, there was silence in the chamber. I heard only the clenched wheeze of my own breath and the hard labor of my heart, nothing more. After a time, I began to suspect that my Queen meant to withdraw as Baron Indolent had done, with no word for her alarmed Hieronomer. Then, however, soft as a whisper, she spoke my name.

  “Your Majesty.” Trembling, I emerged from my covert. Yet when I stood in her presence, I found that I had lost my voice. I had witnessed Inimica Phlegathon deVry in a variety of moods—some or most admittedly dissembled—but on no other occasion had I seen her forlorn.

  To my sight, her air of lonely bereavement only served to make her beauty more ineffable.

  She did not glance at me. Rather she considered some private vista of loss or ruin. In a small voice, as though I were not near enough to hear her, she murmured, “I have erred, Mayhew. I did not foresee Indolent’s boldness. You are now aware of matters concerning which I have sought to preserve your ignorance. Your gifts are thus made useless to me.”

  “Your Majesty.” Her distress prompted me to a boldness that would have eluded me under any other circumstance—a boldness entirely unlike Baron Indolent’s. “My gifts have been useless for some weeks. I have made many attempts and shed much blood, yet the outcome of my scrying remains unaltered. For that reason, my efforts as your Hieronomer serve no further purpose.” She had encouraged me to sacrifice a child, but that I would not do. Even to spare my head, I would not. The horrors of having once studied the entrails of a stillborn infant remained present to me. “Yet the possibility remains that my understanding will prove of some worth.