The assassin smiled sadly and his expression softened a bit. "Had I not ended his life when I did, King Rigert would have killed this coming ruler. This new king, it seems, had a problem keeping out of the queen’s quarters at night. King Rigert was about to eliminate his personal problem, and in the process, kill the hope of the common people."
The old fool’s eyes nearly crossed as the assassin’s words sunk in. He'd bedded the plump young queen regularly, and had to whisper many a word into many an ear, and still owed a dozen favors to keep it all a secret. Had someone betrayed him? Had his friend, King Rigert, been planning on putting his head on the chopping block? The man didn’t love his queen, and he had sixteen whores, so the fool doubted jealousy had been an issue. He wasn't sure that he believed all of this. He knew, or at least thought he knew, everything that had been going on in the kingdom back then. It was almost impossible for such a thing to be planned without his knowledge, almost.
The fool shivered, and started to speak, but caught himself. The assassin surely wasn't speaking of him being this new coming king. The whole idea of that was ludicrous! He wasn't presumptuous enough to entertain the notion. Besides, he had never ruled before. The assassin had plainly said that this coming king had ruled before. He was curious, though, as to whose head the old king had been after. If not his, then who's?
"You look confused, fool." The assassin laughed. "It is you that I speak of! The gods of life and death must have been too far into their cups to decide it, but for whatever reasons, you are the one who must regain control of this kingdom before it destroys itself."
The fool was aghast with disbelief. The assassin saw this, and laughed even harder. "Don’t worry little man. I will be there to help you when you need me the very most."
"What do we do?" The fool asked, incredulously, "I'm an acrobat, a juggler. All I know is a bunch of silly jokes. I'm not fit to be a king, or to save the land from war." He glanced at his painting. A chill of realization ran through him when he saw that the king slayer was still missing from the canvas completely. "Will you kill the current king?" He asked, nervously. "Will you come kill me if I mess it all up?"
"Be quiet you fool, fool!" The assassin said harshly, then broke out in a smile. "You are no king, nor king of men will you ever be!" He sat upright, and stretched his back, then put his arms behind his head, and leaned back against the wall. He opened his mouth to speak, but had to stifle a yawn first. "On the morrow we…well you, will have audience with King Hamrick and his new court. You must have all the wits you've ever had readily about you. Hamrick's snotty little fool will be jealous, and spiteful. You must best him before the king and court. You'll have to make a fool out of a fool, you fool!" The assassin laughed, then slipped partly into the void, leaving his physical body there for the fool to ask all his silly questions. Even though the assassin never responded , the fool kept on asking them.
*** *** ***
The fool woke the next morning to find the assassin gone. There was a glossy bundle of clothes next to a finger bowl on the table.
The fool hastily untied the silver string on the bundle. His eyes were like saucers as he took in the assassin’s gift. It was a jester’s suit, but no ordinary one. This one was wild, with prismatic colors that changed and shifted as they caught the light. There were hundreds of sparkling sequins along the seams, and the matching motley had bells of silver and white gold at its floppy tips. All of the buttons and buckles on the suit, and even the curl tipped shoes, were made of white gold. He wasted no time washing and getting into the perfectly fitting clothes. He was nearly startled back out of the suit by his reflection in the looking glass. He barely recognized himself. Never, in all his days, had he thought a jester could look so wickedly intimidating. Somehow the swirling hues of blue, purple, and red made even his eyes appear sinister and powerful.
The suit wasn't only special in appearance, it was also magical. Patterns of luck and spells of protection were woven into the fabrics. The buttons, buckles, and bells had been forged by dwarves then etched with dweomic symbols that radiated charisma and charm into the wearer.
The old fool could feel the suit’s magical power invigorating him, but had no idea the source of the feeling. He didn’t question it though. He was too busy being thrilled by it. He was also pleased, and even a little scared, at what he saw in his reflection. That was no mere fool, but a jester of menace, a wild joker. He could see the depths of weary intelligence in his own eyes. Around them, the weathered look of times passage was beginning to fade. He felt stronger too. He felt like the king of the world.
"No," he whispered to himself. "Not the king of the world, I am the Lunatic Fringe, the legendary mad man of the ages. I am the Joker! I am the King of Fools!"
The true King of Fools, he'd read, had been the personal jester of the gods. They had bestowed upon their jester a suit of magic, and had given him the power of prophecy. They'd also gifted him with a tongue of silver that allowed him to speak freely to the kings of men without fear of repercussion. Stupidly, the fool stuck out his tongue, and checked it in the looking glass. It wasn’t silver, nor was he getting premonitions of what was to come. The assassin had given him the long dead Joker's magical costume, but it seemed as if the gods themselves were the only ones who could grant him more.
Not disheartened in the least by this realization, the fool raised his head and howled out in maniacal laughter. The wild sound was accompanied by the soft tinkle of the motley’s bells. He felt more eager to meet the new king, and his fellow fool, than he ever thought possible. The worries of the previous night were forgotten, replaced now with an almost deranged sense of confidence. This was laced with a growing urge to do something crazy. Something that only the true Joker could get away with, something so wild, so insane, that the new king and his court would have no choice but to listen.
The old fool took another long look in the glass. The fabric of his costume glimmered and shifted like oil spilled on gently rippling water. His eyes were full of insanity and deep with wisdom. His face looked as it had a dozen years ago. From under the floppy tipped motley, his once gray streaked hair now shone glossy black and hung carelessly in tangled disarray over his face. He shook his head from side to side, listening to the magical bells as they tinkled.
"A fool’s crown!" He laughed. "My crown!"
He suddenly felt irresistibly mischievous. Without a care in the world, he skipped and tumbled his way toward the throne room. The lunatic fringe was loose again, and the chaos and mayhem he was about to unleash were the only things on his mind. He sang as he somersaulted and flipped through the palace halls, bringing smiles and laughs as he went. The words to his song were a play on the last words the assassin had spoken to him.
"I'm off to make a fool of a fool, and a fool of a king as well.
Only a fool can fool a fool, but, with a king’s wits, who can tell!
I'm off to make a fool of a fool, and a fool of a kingdom too.
I might lose my head by the kings-man's ax, but I'll try to fool him too!"
*** *** ***
"What do you say, pooch boy?" King Hamrick growled, "Should we restore this man’s land to him, even though he's behind on his taxes?"
"Oh no, m'lord. Woof! Woof!" the court jester barked. He was on his hands and knees beside the king’s throne, panting. This was one of King Hamrick’s favorite amusements. The jester, nicknamed, “Pooch Boy,” put his hands on the arm of the throne, and rose up with his tongue dangling. "Woof! Woof! M'lord," he barked, and then tilted his head stupidly. "Did this man have his lands before he decided not to pay his taxes? Woof!" The jester dropped back to all fours, and began sniffing around the base of the throne. He let out a whimper, like that of a hound.
"Why should this be, Pooch Boy?" The King asked. He projected his voice so that all could catch his sarcasm. "Surely, a dog such as yourself, would show mercy, and grant this beggar his land back. He swears he will work the whole acreage this season, and use the profit to pay b
ack his kingdom for the protection, and support, that the land taxes were created for."
A murmur of disapproval could be heard rumbling through the section of the crowd that held the petitioners whose circumstances were similar. A handful of spineless, boot-licking nobles commented to each other. Their words were inaudible, but their expressions showed their approval and support for their brave new king. It was obvious they only did so in hopes of gaining his favor. A few of the more civil Dukes and Earls began whispering amongst themselves as well. The young Prince Antwon, of the distant southern isles, went so far as to cough loudly and stare at the king with an expression of open disgust. If, for some reason, King Hamrick didn’t produce an heir, he was the one who would inherit the throne.
"Woof! Woof! Wise king." The jester barked above the din. He crawled down the steps of the throne pedestal, and ventured over to the nervous farmer. He looked back up at the king and barked again, bringing a roar of laughter from his majesty and his supporters. "This silly old dog has to wonder how this man can accomplish all of this by just getting his lands back.” He paused to sniff the petitioner’s backside. "It seems that he couldn’t do it when he had the land before. Woof! Woof!" The laughter increased, so the jester circled the frightened man, and lifted up his leg. "Permission to piss, m'lord?" He asked the king in a tone so serious, that even the people who hated the new king had to stifle their laughter.
Prince Antwon wasn’t laughing. Nor were the group of minor nobles from the farming lands of the west. They, and many others, were fed up at the way things had been of late. King Hamrick's judgments were usually ludicrous. They were sure this would be no different. The only thing that might have surprised them was if the king restored the pathetic man’s lands to him.
The poor farmer’s uncle had died unexpectedly, and left him the lands in question. He was already responsible for tending the crops on the huge acreage that supplied most of the capital, and even the palace itself, with vegetables and wheat flour. There had been no time for him last year to try to harvest the meager land. Had the king, the fool, or the king’s aide paid attention to the man in the first place, they'd have known that the land really had little or no value at all. Before the tax collectors had taken it, the young farmer had come up with a bold plan. He would plant shallow rooting berries on the parts of the land that weren’t rocky and actually held some soil. On the remainder of the acreage, he planned to raise herds of goats. The area wasn’t mountainous, like the terrain the goats were used to, but random clumps of vegetation grew through the rocks. It was enough for them to feed on, to thrive on, even, if properly managed. The goats had already been captured and counted by the man's cousin in preparation for this. It was a clever plan, with a real chance of success. The king’s Pooch Boy, though, had barked all through the man’s entire explanation. The king had not even bothered to listen to him.
Prince Antwon had heard, so had the western land holders. They were forced to listen very carefully, and tune out the jesters’ obnoxious noises. Now they were waiting in disgust for the king to pass judgment.
The petitioning farmer was frustrated and furious, but he was also afraid. His plan had been mocked, and drowned out by an idiot who acted like a dog. The incompetent king had no concern for what was right and just. The farmer had already invested heavily in the lands the tax collectors had taken, and it cost him nearly everything he had. He had men who were working that very moment building fences and clearing out rock for the goats. Dozens of men and their families depended on him. How would he pay them now? What would he do with all those wild goats? He had been loyal to his king and kingdom all of his life, just like his father had. He felt betrayed. King Hamrick and the kingdom he loved so much had now embarrassed and humiliated him. Now they were about to pass judgment.
A howl from the jester brought another outburst of laughter. The King often threw little cherry tomatoes at his fool and any petitioners that dared voice an opinion against him. One just exploded against the jester’s side. The idiot was rolling around at the miserable farmer’s feet, bellowing in mock pain. The hope that the jester wasn’t faking his hurt made those that were fed up with King Hamrick’s injustices smile, despite themselves.
"What say you, Pooch Boy?" The King asked through his laughter. He plucked another of the little tomatoes from a bowl at his side. The farmer’s family had exclusively supplied the palace with these tomatoes for generations. He threw it at the jester and missed. "Ask the farmer, m'lord," The jester rolled onto his back, still holding his arms and legs in the crawling position. "Ask him why he didn’t pay the kingdom’s tax. Ask him why he refused to reap the lands bounty when he had it."
The farmer shook his bowed head in despair. He'd explained it all twice now, once to the king’s aide, and only moments ago to the King himself. The damned jester, he was sure, had made so much noise that nobody heard a word of it.
"Yes, man!" the King yelled, irrationally. “You’ve had the land for a full year, and you didn’t use it!"
A king’s voice, speaking the words of a fool, the farmer thought. His situation wasn’t looking good. He would accept whatever fate dealt him, but he prayed that his family, and the families of those who depended on him, would be unharmed and able to carry on. It was a selfless prayer, a wise prayer.
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for the king to fine or imprison a person who hadn’t paid the kingdom’s tax. The farmer had recently seen a man sent to the headsman for evasion. The thought was unnerving. The fact that he believed the gods to at least be just was all that he was hanging on to. He looked up defiantly at the king, nearly meeting his gaze.
"So, my little dog…what is it to be?" the king yelled impatiently. He threw another tomato at the fool. It missed and hit the farmer in the face. The farmer turned red with rage, but held his tongue. An outburst would get him sent to the chopping block for sure.
"What shall we do with this man’s land?" The King asked.
"Woof! Woof!" The jester barked from the farmer’s side. He then undid his breaches, lifted his leg back up, and began to urinate on the farmers leg. "Woof…Ahhhh… woof, woof…Ahhhh!" The over-dramatized "Ahhh's" sent the king into fits of roaring laughter. "The man is…Ahhh… lazy, or he would have harvested these lands last…Ahhh…season, and been able to pay the miniscule taxes that the land…Ahhh… accrued." The jester fixed his pants and quickly rolled out of the way of his pooling urine.
When the king’s laughter died down, the jester sat up and continued. "He should be flogged for his laziness. The lands, and all other properties he claims to own, should revert to the kingdom for auction. The taxes he still owes should be earned by him personally, on a real farm, such as the one that grows your little red balls of ammunition, my good and righteous king." The jester stood up, using the farmer to pull himself to his feet. He had no idea that the farmer he had just pissed on did own that farm. "And after his flogging, he should be publicly beaten for coming into the palace covered in dog piss! We must set an example for any other lazy folk who might try to cheat the kingdom of its due!"
The jester did a little dance, which sent the king’s mirth over the edge. A moment later, when his majesty’s laughter began to subside, the fool started to sing. "Woof, woof, woof, something’s amiss. Woof, woof, woof, it smells like piss!"
The King was laughing so hard that he couldn’t manage to sip his brandy wine, much less pass judgment on the flabbergasted man. The bright red drink spilled from his cup. It went down his chin and stained the white and gold robe at the neck. To those who had witnessed King Rigert’s death, it appeared to have happened again, or at least, they hoped so. The king stood angrily and threw his goblet. It smashed against a white and gold banner and the remaining contents of the goblet stained that as well. The stain was shaped like a swooping dragon that completely covered the kingdom’s crest. It was an omen; the stain had formed so perfectly, it left no room for doubt. The king, however, was unaware of it. He assumed that the sudden silence
of the entire throne room was in anticipation of his judgment.
He started to repeat his jester’s recommendations, but was struck by the looks of confusion and horror on the faces before him. He found that he had forgotten what the jester had said to do. "This man…is to be flogged on the morrow for not paying the kingdom’s tax," he said hesitantly. He looked to his group of bootlickers, hoping to get at least a nod of agreement. Instead, he saw nothing but looks of fear, and the back of his jesters’ head as he danced crazily by. "He will pay what he owes…" The king’s voice faltered as he tried to figure out what was wrong with the people in the audience. Only moments ago, hadn't they all been joyously laughing with him?
"He'll pay by the end of the mid-summers collection term, or be…or be…" Aggravated now at this farce, the king wanted the business before him to be finished. His voice was as hard as the marble walls around him. "…or he will be put to the block, and made an example of! This is my judgment, and it is final!"
The jester, not used to having his suggestions ignored, spun to look at the king. Instead, he saw the wine stain on the banner. The jester gracefully cart-wheeled across the floor, came to a stop in front of the banner, and began to examine it.
The farmer kept his head held high as he was escorted out of the throne room. He felt that his punishment was unjust, and he wasn’t looking forward to what was about to happen. The king had left out the part about taking his lands away though, and that was all that mattered to him now. He and the people that depended on those lands would be able to continue. The pain of the flogging would pass in time.
As they exited the throne room, into the noisy throngs of other petitioners waiting in the great hall to see the king, a woman shrieked out. The large crowded hallway fell into silence, save for a lone voice that was merrily singing, and the soft tinkling of magical bells.
"I'm off to make a fool of a fool, and a fool of a king as well.
The Dragon Writers Collection Page 97