A Portion of Dragon and Chips

by Simon Haynes

  Wine was poured, and Therstie drained the glass with a flick of the wrist. "Again."

  The second glass followed the first, and after dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, Therstie belched and turned her attention to the blood-soaked stage. "So, who are we topping today? Anyone of note?"

  "Lord Greyfinger, Your Majesty," said Varnish.

  Chylde frowned at this. "I thought Lord Greyfinger was a valued member of the High Chamber? Why are we executing him again?"

  "We can hardly execute him again," said Varnish, his pale eyes expressionless, "since we have yet to execute him for a first time."

  "You know what I meant," snapped Chylde petulantly. "Don't treat me like a fool."

  "I would only ever treat you as you deserve," replied Varnish silkily.

  Chylde reddened at the brush-off. Varnish was skilled at verbal jousting, with a vast store of wit to draw on, and it had been a mistake to goad him.

  "Relax, uncle. It was Lord Varnish's idea. Grayfinger is a sneaky little spit, and we're better off getting him out the way at the start, instead of letting him go around plotting our demise for months on end." She looked up as Sur Loyne approached. "Yes?"

  "My queen, I would like to prepare myself before the tournament."

  "Of course, of course. Go buff your mighty weapon, my champion."

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Sur Loyne, and he bowed deeply before backing away.

  Queen Therstie gestured at the nearest guard with her wine glass. "You there. Let the execution proceed."

  "Let the execution proceed!" shouted the guard.

  The large crowd fell silent, all eyes on the raised platform in the shadow of the castle wall. Standing proud in the middle of the stage, resplendent in polished black armour, was the executioner, double-bladed broad axe casually resting over one shoulder. Kneeling on the platform, far less resplendent in his tattered, dung-stained clothes, was the condemned man. His clothes had been fine once, as befitting a noble, but weeks cowering in a filthy dungeon had knocked the sheen off. Not to mention several buttons. His arms were tied behind his back, and when the axeman put a boot between his shoulders and pushed, Greyfinger toppled forward, his chin just overhanging the edge of the blood-soaked wooden chopping block.

  Without ceremony, the axeman hefted his weapon, sunlight glinting off the blade. It had already ended many prisoners that day, but the edge was still razor sharp, and it would have no trouble despatching another helpless victim.

  Greyfinger closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He could have ruled the Four Kingdoms, had his machinations born fruit. He might have sired a dynasty which stood for a thousand years, had Lord Varnish been slightly less observant. But it was not to be, and instead Greyfinger was about to die like a common criminal.

  He heard the executioner grunt, the crowd giving him a rising ooooOOOOHHH! as the weapon rose in preparation for the killing blow.

  Then … someone screamed. The piercing, terrified shriek was followed by more screams, and Greyfinger opened one eye, barely daring to hope. Was it a rescue party, come to save him from the axe? But no, instead of a cadre of noble knights on prancing horses, he saw a pair of city guards escorting a curious bronze figure into the town square. The figure walked with a stiff-legged gait, as though its joints were seized, but it wasn't the gait that caught Greyfinger's attention. No, it was the strange, full-body armour the figure was wearing, encasing it from head to toe.

  If he didn't know better, he would have described it as a mechanical man, perhaps driven by clockwork … or even magic.

  — ♦ —

  "Why do you want me to end the queen?" demanded Tiera.

  Spadell shrugged. "Does it matter?"

  "Sure. I don't work for crazies." Tiera studied the captain closely. He didn't look like a nut job, but some men were born stalkers, and when they chose the wrong woman … look out. "If this is some kind of payback because she refused your advances—"

  "Me and the queen?" Spadell snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't sully myself with that woman."

  "Revenge, then." Tiera saw the guess shoot home. "She had someone killed. Someone you cared about."

  Spadell's lips thinned, and for a second she thought he was going to strike her. He was obviously carrying a deep hurt, and in her experience that made people careless. "My motives aren't relevant," he said at last. "Can you do it or not?"

  "Let me get this straight. If I say no, you'll have me executed?"

  Spadell nodded.

  "And if I say yes, you'll release me?"

  "That is the deal."

  "Well, in that case, of course I'll murder the queen."

  "You seem very confident."

  "I once trained as an actor. Plus assassins don't tend to be shrinking violets, as a rule." Tiera hesitated. "I'm going to need a little time to plan this through. One does not simply walk up to the queen and stick her with a dagger."

  "I don't care if one drops a rock on her head while she's using the privy," growled the captain. "She dies, and that's final."

  "It usually is." Tiera hesitated. "I usually plan for the first three months, but in this case I can cut it to one or two months of—"

  "Sorry, I wasn't clear. You have to do it today."

  Tiera laughed, long and hard. When she recovered, she dashed the tears from her eyes and shook her head. "I was wrong. You are nuts."

  "You don't understand. She's only visiting the city for the tournament, and tomorrow …"

  His voice tailed off as he heard a commotion outside the cell, and he frowned as a guard skidded to a halt outside. "Captain, some big guy just showed up at the barracks. Says he's got an appointment."

  "He hasn't. Tell him to go away."

  "He says we're to let him in, by order of the queen."

  "What's his name?"

  The guard thought for a moment. "Sur Loyne, captain."

  Spadell swore. "The queen's champion? What does that giant waste of space want?"

  "I could go ask him."

  "No, let him in. I'm finished here."

  The guard eyed Tiera. "Really? Can I go next?"

  "Hold your tongue and do what you're told," snapped Spadell.

  "Yessir!" The guard left at a run, and once he was out of earshot, the captain addressed Tiera. "Do we have a deal?"

  "The chance of success is somewhere south of zero, but sure. We have a deal."

  "Good. Sit tight, don't make a fuss, and I'll have you out of here soon."

  Before Spadell could leave, the door swung open and he was confronted by the queen's champion, Sur Loyne. He knew the huge, muscled fighter to be a big man, but he seemed twice as tall and wide in the confines of the cell. "Spadell, am I right?"

  "I am Captain Spadell, yes."

  "Good. I want to see a couple of prisoners."

  "Which ones?"

  "I don't care. They're just a warm-up before my tournament."

  "I thought it was at the queen's tournament?" said Spadell softly.

  "Don't get smart with me, man." Loyne glanced at Tiera, then looked her over more carefully, his gaze roving from her head to her toes. "By Zephyr, you're a sight for sore eyes." He stepped towards Tiera, towering over her. Roughly, he took her chin in one hand, forcing her mouth open to inspect her teeth. Then he ran one hand down her side, squeezing her buttocks. "When the tourney is over, I'll be back to sheathe my sword in your scabbard," he said. "If you know what I mean."

  "She's being released today," said Spadell quickly, before Tiera put the big man's eyes out with a fingernail. "A misunderstanding, since cleared up."

  "I'm sure you can hold her for a couple more hours." Loyne gave Spadell a meaningful look. "That wasn't a suggestion, by the way. That was an order. I want her waiting for me when I return." Then he clapped his hands together, making his biceps bulge. "Now, where are my prisoners? Surely they deserve a moment of glory before their executions?"

  Reluctantly, Spadell handed him the keys to the cells, and after a lingering look a
t Tiera, the queen's champion left.

  "I'm going to kill him," said Tiera quietly.

  "You'll have to, because he stands between you and the queen."

  They heard a shout, and then the sound of some hapless prisoner being punched. There was a cry of pain, and Tiera's eyes glittered as she recognised the voice. It was Thonn, the stripling of a teenager chained to the wall in the next cell. "No charge for the champion," murmured Tiera, her eyes intense. "I'll do him for free."

  "I expected nothing less."

  "There is one more thing." Tiera nodded towards the door. "The kid, Thonn. He comes with me."

  "Sure, if there's anything left. But why?"

  "He might be useful in my … quest."

  Since Tiera wouldn't elaborate, Spadell left, pulling the door shut behind himself. Moments later he returned with the keys, and she heard the lock shooting home. In the distance she could hear Sur Loyne laying into another prisoner, and she vowed to make him pay with his life.

  Chapter 8

  Queen Therstie approached the living statue, swaying slightly from the effects of the wine. As she got closer, she took in its graceful lines, and she realised it was undoubtedly the work of advanced craftsmen. That meant it hailed from distant lands, because the craftsmen in her kingdom were barely capable of assembling a chair with the correct number of legs. Then, she recalled a distant memory. Her nanny had once told her a story, in which a siege had been broken when an army poured from a giant horse. Quite how the army had entered the horse, and from which part of its anatomy they'd emerged to claim victory, her nanny wouldn't say, but the story had remained with the queen over the years. It was one reason she refused to accept pets from anyone, no matter how innocent-looking they might be.

  This mechanical man, though. It was too small to hold an army. Indeed, the walking suit of armour was barely large enough to hold a single man, and there was no room for a weapon of any kind. She lowered her gaze to its waist, and sighed at the lack of any visible manhood. A clockwork man with a big hard sword? Now that was a gift she would gladly have accepted. "Does it talk?" she enquired at last.

  "Indeed, Your Majesty," said one of the guards. "He calls himself Sur Roybot."

  "Roybot? A curious name for a curious creature."

  The queen advanced until she was standing face to face with the metal man. It regarded her with warm yellow eyes, then bowed deeply. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, majesty."

  "By the Four Kingdoms!" exclaimed Chylde. "What a marvellous voice! What diction!"

  "There is but one Kingdom, and I am her ruler," snapped Therstie. "There exists but a temporary truce, and once our armies are back at full strength, the rest of the Land will be mine."

  "Apologies, my Queen. I cast no shade on your reign. It was merely an expression of surprise."

  "Of course, of course," said Therstie vaguely, and she turned her attention to the curious contraption standing before her. "Tell me, what are you doing here? What is your purpose?"

  "I have no purpose, ma'am, other than to serve you. As for my presence, it was by way of an accident, but I must declare it a happy turn of events now that I have experienced your august and overwhelming presence."

  Therstie laughed, and turned to the royal party. "By Zephyr, Lord Varnish. This creature is smoother than you, I swear! More of this sweet talk, and he'll soon be wearing your coat."

  Varnish looked sour. Alongside him, Lord Chylde couldn't hide a sudden smile at his rival's discomfort. Then, with a cunning look on his face, he stood up. "Majesty, I trust my gift pleases you?"

  Everyone stared at him.

  "It is but a token of my esteem," continued Chylde. "A mere trifle, to be sure, but a valuable one nonetheless."

  "You got this for me? Uncle, that's so sweet!"

  Varnish looked like he was about to burst into flames, while Chylde glowed with pleasure. "Indeed, my queen. I am only sorry he arrived in such a state." Here, he scowled at Islington and Pentonville. "I assure you those responsible will be punished."

  "If I might just say something in their defence," began Clunk. "It was not—"

  "Silence!" shouted Lord Chylde. "Do not trouble the queen with your fancies. You may only speak when given permission."

  Therstie looked the mechanical man up and down, then gestured at a guard. "Have him cleaned up, feed him whatever he desires, and bring him to me after the feast. I may have a use for this metal man yet." Up close, she'd spotted a small panel set into Sur Roybot's pelvis, right around where the pubic bone ought to be, and she found herself wondering what precisely that panel might conceal.

  As Sur Roybot was bustled away, Therstie saw her champion approaching across the square. He had a satisfied look on his face, and he was busy wiping bloodstains off his armour with someone's ragged shirt. Then Therstie glanced towards the stage, where the executioner was waiting patiently with his victim. Lord Greyfinger's face bore a mix of apprehension and hope, and at the sight Therstie felt a small crumb of guilt. The man had proven useful over the years, and she only had Varnish's word that he'd tried to betray her. Well-used to intrigue, Therstie knew Varnish might be getting rid of a rival, and while she usually rewarded such initiative, in this case she felt the Master of Spies might be taking things a little too far. "Halt the execution," she said to a waiting guard.

  "Halt the execution!" shouted the guard.

  There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd, quickly silenced, and then a thud as Lord Greyfinger fainted on the stage, toppling sideways and hitting his head on the bloodstained timbers.

  "We'll hold the tournament next," said the queen. "You can lop Greyfinger's head off afterwards."

  The crowd cheered at the good news, throwing their hats in the air as the unconscious Greyfinger was temporarily carted away. Then the crowd backed away from the centre of the square to give the combatants room to fight.

  "The rules are simple," said the queen. "Any man or woman may take up a sword and face my champion. Defeat him, and you will become the new champion. Lose, and you die." She looked around the crowd. This was the tricky part, because it would take a truly stupid man, or woman, to face Sur Loyne in single combat. And, if there were no takers, there would be no tournament.

  People shuffled their feet, looked at the ground, and generally acted in the manner of school children who had not completed their homework. They were desperate not to be noticed, because they guessed that if none volunteered, opponents for the hulking, expert champion would be selected at random.

  Therstie was about to single out a strapping young lad as the first victim when the crowd parted and an old man with a walking stick was thrust forward. He tried to return to the crowd, but willing hands pushed him into the ring. "He said he'd fight Sur Loyne!" shouted someone.

  "No I didn't!" shouted the old man.

  "Oh, yes he did!" shouted the crowd.

  "I didn't! I didn't!" shouted the old man.

  "Oh, yes he—"

  "Silence!" Therstie raised a hand. "This tournament is an equal opportunity event, and the old and infirm will not be excluded. Please, sir. Take up a weapon."

  Gamely, the old man gripped his cane.

  "Ten shillings on Sur Loyne," shouted someone. There were no takers.

  Therstie closed her eyes. The crowd wanted blood, even after all the executions, but she could have taken the old man herself, bare handed. A one-sided contest would earn Sur Loyne no repute, and she was of a mind to halt the bout.

  Unfortunately, Sur Loyne didn't care about his repute. He strode into the arena, drew his sword and cut the old man down where he stood. The crowd roared their approval, and as Therstie eyed the twitching corpse she realised she might have left it a bit late to call the fight off.

  Another unwilling participant was propelled out of the crowd, and Sur Loyne cut her down before she'd opened her mouth to protest. Then, crazed with bloodlust, he started cutting people down at random, until there was pandemonium as the shrieking peasants ran to and fr
o, trying to avoid his flashing blade.

  "Sur Loyne, there is no honour in your actions!" snapped Therstie. "Desist!"

  The champion stopped beating a man's head on the paving stones, and stood up to face his queen. "Yes, Your Majesty. As you command."

  "Resume your seat, for I have need of food and I wish to dine."

  "Was I victorious, majesty?"

  "Yes, yes. You won the first round. Congratulations."

  Sur Loyne bowed deeply. "I will treasure this victory, for it was amongst my finest."

  Therstie spotted the guards leading her new mechanical man away, and had a sudden thought. "Actually, belay that. I believe there is another who might yet challenge you."

  "Indeed? I welcome the chance to prove myself."

  "Good, because this fight might test your mettle, so to speak." With that, Therstie put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. The guards accompanying Sur Roybot turned, and she beckoned to them. They returned to the marquee, and she faced the mechanical man once more. "Do you know how to use a sword?"

  Sur Roybot glanced at Lord Chylde, who nodded his permission for the robot to speak.

  "I understand the basics," said the mechanical man slowly. "However, it is not in my … nature … to cause harm to others."

  Therstie rolled her eyes. A pacifist at a tournament. Perfect, just perfect. "Look, get out there and defend yourself. Is that clear?"

  "This I can do," said Sur Roybot, and he accepted a sword from the guards and strolled into the middle of the square.

  — ♦ —

  The crowd was hushed as the combatants squared off. Sur Loyne loved to be the centre of attention, and he circled the makeshift arena with a confident swagger. He believed people watched him because of his manly physique, chiselled features and exquisite sword-play, but in fact people were just hoping someone, anyone, would one day grind the arrogant bully's face into the dirt.

  Meanwhile, Clunk stood rooted to the spot. He'd already weighed the primitive sword they'd thrust into his hands, calculated its centre of gravity and plotted its maximum reach. Now he was doing the same for Sur Loyne's weapon, although his figures were rubbery because he couldn't very well ask to measure the man's sword before they began.