The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

"Boy should be learnin' the history of Women's undergarments from the Leptopric age up to today," Pajama's said, pulling a sticky toffee out of his left pocket. As he masticated with his good tooth, he took in the glares of his fellows around him. "What? Teach the young what they want to learn, then sneak in what they need to."

  The Historians returned to their debate, which could quickly turn from a verbal fight into a physical one until someone's robe fell into the fire and they had to spend the night extinguishing grass (again). But the Chancellor interceded before any eyebrows were lost, "Good sirs, you get ahead of yourselves. We do not even know if my lord wishes to remain with us."

  Aldrin paled at "my lord". The best he ever hoped was to be someone's patron saint, maybe for not stepping in dog shit or something. "We, uh," he looked at Ciara for the first time since the winds shifted seemingly in their favor.

  She glared at him, thinking it entertaining to see what he did with the amount of rope he gave himself. But she was still in danger. There was a good chance these historians wind could shift back to thoughts of murder if they didn't get what they wanted.

  "We're on a vital mission. To help secure the throne for Ostero and hold the Empire at bay," Ciara said, trying to sound like someone would really entrust two teenagers with that task.

  Luckily, the group of Historians hadn't existed anywhere close to the current century for years. For them, deciding your future ruler based upon who could pull a sword out of a large block of cheese still seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.

  "Never let politics bother us before, why should we start now?"

  "Because," she said in a moment of brilliance, "if you want to influence the crown, you need this bo...man to be sitting upon the throne. And if you want to keep that throne from crumbling to the might of the mad Vasska, you need to help us reach Tumbler's End."

  This elicited some glances, some more worried looks, and a few sheepish stares at hands as if they had no idea what she was talking about. The assemblage grew quiet, all slowly looking to their leader. He blinked those milky eyes and admitted, "I do not believe we can take you as far as you need to go. Tumbler's End, well, there were some misunderstandings, some miscommunications, and some misses with arrows."

  "'N' Chance over there made it with both of the Mayor's daughters."

  "Did not! Chase had the other one."

  "Regardless," the chancellor said, cutting off the fight, "we cannot safely travel into the county, but we could take you near it."

  Ciara looked at Aldrin, who had a gleam of hope in his eye. For the first time since the Dark Knight grabbed his shoulder and changed his fate, things were starting to look up.

  "So we get room and board in exchange for you teaching my companion whatever...things you want."

  The Chancellor was about to open his mouth when Bartone cut him off, "What do we need the girl for? She's of no importance and little more than some bastard of a passing merchant of the sands."

  Her dagger turned back on fuzz face and he gulped a bit at the murderous gleam in her eye. But his suggestion already took hold in the other historian's minds. Girls were always trouble, and they could never be counted on to handle more than the simplest tasks. And they were always attracting bears with their hysteric bleeding.

  A consensus seemed to be rising that Ciara should be bound and left for whoever was passing on the road after they left, shouldn't be more than a day or a week at the most, when Aldrin clapped his hands. At first, it wasn't loud enough to gather their attention, so he tried again, slamming his palms together so hard they stung.

  Summoning up a voice he heard often from the throne room, he boomed the way his stepmother would, "The girl remains with me. She is mine and mine alone. You cannot have one without the other."

  The Historians looked at each other and shrugged. He seemed dead set on keeping his duster on legs, let him. Bartrone grumbled, unhappy to have lost another fight, "Then she best make herself useful."

  Aldrin smiled wide, proud of himself for the first time in his life having shown leadership. He looked over at Ciara and his smile froze at the icy glare directed upon his soul. He thought she'd be grateful, at least happy. She could keep her promise and maybe even meet up with her father again.

  Instead she looked like she wanted to dice him up into little pieces more than Bartrone who called her nothing more than a whore's child. The Chancellor pulled them under his black wing and, after ushering them inside his mobile office, loaded both up with whatever warmth the still bickering Historians could spare.

  As the voices came to an orchestra tumbling over a cliff crescendo outside the Chancellor's caravan, Aldrin slowly sipped something that warmed from his toes up to the top of his hair. Ciara sat immobile, trying to will the shivers away with fury and the mug of warm academically brewed brandy in her fingers.

  "I thought you'd be pleased," Aldrin kept talking, hoping that throwing enough words out would solve the problem. "We have safe passage nearly to the army camp. All I need do is nod along to some windy tales and you needn't worry about a thing."

  Her eyes could cut through the famed Aravingion steel as she glared at the boy prince. "What gives you the right to decide my life for me?" she said through lips pulled back so deep in rage they nearly vanished.

  He looked down for a moment, knowing he shouldn't say what snaked into his mind. The evil, traitorous thought bolstered from a winner's high wrapped around his tongue and grabbed a hold, "I am your king, am I not?"

  She threw the brandy in her king's face and stood, pulling the borrowed shawl closer about herself, "You are not my Lord, I am not your maid, or your little court vassals to jump and bend at your every inbred whim. I am beholden only to Scepticar and his guiding eye."

  Climbing over stacks of books piled haphazardly in the caravan, she reached the door and pulled the latch. Without turning to look back, she said, "I hope I never have to see or speak with his majesty ever again," and walked out into the biting cold.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Life with the Ancient Order of Herodus was a lot less exciting than they'd signed on for. Late mornings were spent in harried discussion over the at-this-hour brunch table while everyone debated over the latest piece of literature, doing their best to prove to the others that only they properly understood the ramifications of such research. The fact that no one ever actually read the journal article for the day had little impact on the near jaw breaking fights that broke out most mornings.

  One year, Kaltar, the lead researcher in ancient customs from the mid-evil Emperors of the Old Empire, was pounding Mitrione -- professor of ancient dwarven jewelry design17 -- repeatedly over the head with the creamer. Kaltar was mid-swing crying, "You stupid fornicator with a mastodon! Everyone knows the people of Mageton used copper pots to piss in," while Mitrione gurgled something about dwarves before anyone thought to check their debate source itself. It was a short abstract titled, "Purple? Why do Kings like Purple so Damn Much?"

  The fact Kaltar was able to spin that into a twenty-minute diatribe about the color choice of chamber pots in Mageton was why he was feared throughout most of the academic community. And also, to some extent, his backhand.

  Ciara, used to the hectic castle life, would awaken just as the sun cast its early light across the browning landscape, only to find herself in a monk-like solitude for four or five hours. Slowly, a few of the younger robes would trickle out; their straw pillow hair coated in ink and fanned out like a startled cat. They'd gather up a few pots and dump them on the fire, getting water boiling with a dissolved black powder until a powerful smell -- like rich, acidic earth -- permeated the camp.

  Then the others would stumble out, most remembering to get dressed this time thanks to their recent "honorary members," and say not a word until a few cups of that boiled dirt was in their stomachs. This would last up through a breakfast of oatmeal and a smattering of blackened bread before agendas began, then last meeting discussions, and when "humble opinions" broke open tempers were
so riled the meeting was adjourned before blood needed to be washed up. Each robe would return back to his caravan, fuming to spend the rest of the day scribbling about in his books, which managed to crawl out of the warm safety of the mobile cabins and onto the afternoon grass below.

  Ciara tried to join in the breakfast table, fondly remembering the old servants' nook where everyone would gather in the morning, stuffing whatever dried bits from last night they could into growling stomachs while her mother dolled out the days orders. What should have been back groaning work became a source of gossip and inside jokes. The Twins would always start the day wearing a different colored bow in their hair and switch mid-day to see if any of the castle's nobility noticed. At one point, after a rather heavy drinking Winter Solstice night, Porpo -- the blacksmith who looked like he ate the last one -- snatched the pink bow off the right twin's head and wore it the entire weeklong celebration. Not a single Knight said a word to the proud man in the hairpiece, because cutting off your nose to spite your face is best done with a properly honed sword.

  But the historians made it clear from the frosty start that someone un-possessing of their wit and intelligence was unwanted at their table, as they stared immobilized into the black sludge in front of them. When she tried to start a conversation with one of the younger academics, his robe decorated in a single thread width of gold, he turned away from her to the person beside him. Unfortunately, this happened to be Chance, who was trying to sew a set of leather patches to his elbows while he was wearing the robe.

  The Deans refused to begin any old business, mumbling into their waning tin of biscuits about how this conversation was not intended for CERTAIN ears. If she actually cared what any of the useless old men wandering in the woods like deranged hermits had to say she'd have sat bolt upright, staring them down until the sun crested. But after four hours left alone with nothing but the slow march of shadows to keep her entertained, she needed something, anything, to get her muscles moving. Rising from the table, she picked up her small bowl and moved to the putrid pot of boiling dirt. Trying to not vomit from the burnt smell, she poured a fresh pitcher of water into the pot and let it sit by the fire getting it ready for a good scouring, probably for the first time in a highly contested Era.

  The next morning the historians were full of praise and another round of oatmeal for whichever of the Bothers brewed the daily sludge. It actually tasted like something other than burnt pig offal. Only Pajamas, whose real name seemed to be lost somewhere amongst a bunch of S's his missing teeth couldn't form, hated the change, grumbling, "Coffee 's better 'n ya can' tell it's supposed to be coffee."

  Having been given an inch, the academics proceeded to explain very loudly how Ciara owed them over a mile and a half, and she should be thanking them loudly for all the hard work they let her do. Chores, carefully and evenly laid out for the professors depending upon the order of who published the most, were dumped, often literally, into her soggy lap. The cleaning, the cooking, the brandy brewing, and the piles of hoods they never actually wore all fell onto her scrubbed plate.

  If she tried to say a word, the others shut her down, either feigning deafness or pointing out regrettably accurately how she was so much more skilled than they were in simple domestic matters even a child could handle. The hypocrisy of it was not lost on Ciara, but faced against the mob there was little she could do.

  She got her wish and saw almost none of Aldrin much less never talked to him. He was whisked from one caravan to another, spending his days having alphabets drilled into him, some of them so dead even the professor of it wasn't certain why there were three c's with different hats. Then it was to the War Room, where the trimmed beards talked military strategy and General So's Five Rules of Proper Combat.18 The elder caravan spent most of their allotted time asking Aldrin if he'd ever looked up a duchess' skirt what with them being big enough to house a few fiefdoms and how many enemies heads he'd sliced off. At the boring answer of none and ew, pajamas got down to teaching him mathematics and a few other tricks he'd picked up in his travels.

  So Ciara was left alone to soldier through what was quickly becoming a day and a half's worth of work keeping ten grown men alive. About a week into this new arrangement, the Chancellor walked forth from his cozy caravan. Normally he stayed tightly bundled up inside the smallest of the four, only one of the Deans bringing him his meals. He seemed to prefer to let the madness run itself.

  His boots stepped heavily to the ground as he slid towards the lunch fire, his hands extended to the flames. Ciara didn't hear him, she was engrossed in trying to get mustard stains out of a pair of socks. Rubbing them violently and cursing in enough Dunlaw to make her father blush in shame, she jumped almost a foot when the weathered hand landed on her shoulder.

  "Forgive the intrusion, but I couldn't help overhear your colorful vocabulary. Is there some problem that only a ketocher can help with?" He had a heavy pair of spectacles, frosted over with a warm red, obscuring his eyes.

  Ciara turned beet red at the old man repeating a word that would have gotten her trachea cleaned out with soap, and lifted the sock in her hands toward him, "It's Assbert's laundry. The man must live inside a condiment jar."

  "Assbert? Ah Asper, yes he does seem to favor coating mustard on everything, especially himself. But, why are you doing his laundry?"

  Her mouth fell open at that. "Because he told me to," sounded stupid. "Someone had to do it," sounded defeatist. "I'm eating it secretly at night," sounded insane. Instead, she gurgled a bit and waved the sock around, the red spectacles never shifting off her.

  "I see," the Chancellor said softly to her. Lifting his warm hand off her shoulder, he shifted towards the bustling caravans and called out to his fellows as graciously as he could, "Get your lazy, widening bums out here!"

  A terrifying calm descended across the clearing at the normally soft leader's outburst. Slowly, doors swung open and robes descended, far brighter than they'd been in years thanks to the girl also rising to her feet. Even Aldrin poked his nose out, a small clay tablet hanging around his neck with a short sentence about a rather quirky fox jacking over a lispy god. It didn't look like it'd been a good day for the boy king.

  The Chancellor clapped his hands once, drawing attention from the ten other curious heads crowding around him. "You think yourself above the rules of our order? You believe you have earned the right to shirk the duties our university's forebears laid down in blood and ink?"

  The younger ones, their initiation still stinging when it rained, shook their heads violently. The older ones, the rules fading into a hazy memory of something they recited while jamming fish into their throats while standing in an outhouse shook their heads fuzzily, trying to clear afternoon cobwebs.

  "No, Sir!" Chance, called out, even though neither he nor his brother had reached the point of taking said vows. At least not until either could manage to sign their own name.

  "So you say, yet here you are trying to weasel out of the most respected of our traditions. What is cleanliness next to?" he asked, slapping his left hand hard into his right.

  "Astuteness," the assemblage mumbled, glancing at each other, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

  "Idle hands are..." the Chancellor continued.

  "The peer reviewer's play things," they mumbled again, a few of the older ones starting to catch on.

  "And what is the second rule of our order? Set down by the first wandering scholar, Herodus centuries ago?"

  "Clean up your own damn shit!" the cry was muffled, as all but the Bother's eyes swiveled to Ciara, who tried to not melt under their accusing gaze.

  "And I expect you all to follow that lesson, regardless of who travels with us. If anyone is caught shirking his duties he will be forced to work the shelves," the Chancellor said as if it were a death sentence, "Do I make myself transparently clear?"

  The cowed heads nodded, their cowls slipping in front of their faces. "Good, now get back to work. We set out for the Northern Trade
Route in the morning," he said once more, smiling inwardly as the hordes scattered back to their offices like deer that just caught sight of a wolf.

  Ciara looked at the yellow speckled sock still clutched in her hand and dropped it to the ground. The Chancellor turned back to her, letting a grandfatherly smile take over and brightening his scarred face. "They'll continue to be pretarkin's in the backside, but if they give you any more of their chores simply ask that they ruminate upon what happened to Dean Lambor."

  "Why? What happened to Dean Lambor?"

  The smile grew wider, "I've never bothered to tell them. I prefer they think of their own damnation awaiting anyone who fails to scrub his own sock."

  Ciara smiled for the first time in a week, having found a moments confidant in a sea of hateful red, "Thanks."

  "It was nothing...Ciara." He fumbled his hand out and she grasped it, shaking it heavily the way her father always insisted, "You may call me Medwin."

  Aldrin, for the first time since they raised anchor and set off down the road, pulled the book away from his face. Their rattling red convoy passed a few pilgrims heading to the Eastern shrine, and one wolf in a shepherd's clothing. Otherwise it was smooth sailing, the wind encouragingly keeping at their backs for most of the trip.

  Historians were known to be mortal enemies of horses and would, when confronted with one, scream a feral literary roar then duck behind whatever provided protection. The horses, for the most part, had never been advised of the feud and generally trotted beside the crouching human and nosed through their pockets for sugar cubes.

  Ages ago, a rather loopy artist took up with them rather than face an angry patron who now had a ceiling covered with the creation of man at the hands of Scepticar, then Argur, then the old god of Chaos, before settling upon a large cup of wine that claimed it was not so. All the client wanted was a fresh coat of white paint.

  While watching the historians try to corral what was actually a young fawn and three badgers into their harness, he struck upon a brilliant plan, placing a set of sails upon the top of the caravans and anchoring them to the axel. Halfway through his design stage, he had another brilliant plan to hook a series of pedals to the axle instead. Being unable to chose, he added both so the caravans of the historians could both crest upon the winds and force some of their stronger lads to peddle until their hearts were about to explode. For these reasons, they highly prized the lone meteorologist in the group who spent most of his life calmly sipping tea while reading about famous clouds.