Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  “It sounds very complicated,” said Guillam.

  “It is,” said Darius. “That’s why the timing of our rebellion is so important. With the migration well under way, the general confusion will work to our advantage.”

  “Thank you,” said Guillam politely. “I understand now.”

  “Then perhaps we could please get down to business,” said Darius heavily. “We do have a great deal to discuss.”

  “Like what?” said Blays. “Our orders were to insult and isolate the King and sound out Prince Harald, and we’ve done that. Far as I’m concerned, the sooner we’re out of here, the better. I don’t like the company I’m keeping these days.”

  “We were also ordered to be discreet,” snapped Guillam, flushing slightly. “Now, thanks to Bedivere’s stupidity, the King is bound to go ahead with the drawing of the Curtana!”

  “He would have anyway,” said Blays.

  “Not necessarily! We might have talked him out of it.” Guillam shook his head in disgust. “At least you kept your wits about you, Darius. If the King agrees to the Curtana’s destruction, we might yet come out of this ahead.”

  “You really think the King will give up the Curtana?” asked Blays incredulously.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. If we can keep this muscle-bound oaf on a leash, perhaps …”

  “Oh, stop whining,” said Bedivere. Guillam spluttered wordlessly, outraged, and then Bedivere turned and looked at him. “Be quiet,” said Bedivere, and Guillam was. The crimson glare burned openly in Bedivere’s eyes, and Guillam could feel all colour draining from his face. His hands were trembling, and his mouth was very dry. Bedivere smiled coldly, and the madness faded slowly from his eyes, at least as much as it ever did.

  “You’ll never come closer,” he said softly, and then he turned away from the shattered Landsgrave, and once again stared off into the distance at something only he could see.

  Darius studied the silently brooding warrior a moment, and then took his hand away from his poisoned dagger. He sighed quietly. Berserkers were all very well in battle, but there was no place for them in councils of war. When Darius had first been told of Sir Bedivere, having a Landsgrave who could double as an assassin had seemed like a good idea, but now he wasn’t so sure. The man was clearly out of anyone’s control, and once the rebellion was over, he’d have to go. Assuming Bedivere held together that long …

  “This meeting that Harald wants,” said Blays, breaking the awkward silence. “Is it possible?”

  “I suppose so,” said Darius, “but it’s a hell of a risk. I don’t like the idea of all of us gathered together in one place. If anyone should betray us …”

  “You can always post men-at-arms to see that we’re not disturbed.”

  Darius sighed resignedly. “Very well. But I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” said Blays shortly. “Just do it.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Would anyone like a glass of wine?” asked Cecelia. Blays and Guillam shook their heads. Bedivere ignored her.

  “I suppose King John does have to die?” said Blays slowly, and everyone looked at him.

  “You know he does,” said Guillam. “As long as he’s alive, he’s a knife at our throats. There’d always be someone plotting to put him back on the throne. He has to die.”

  “But if Harald ever suspects …”

  “He won’t,” said Darius. “King John will be killed during the initial fighting, while Harald is occupied elsewhere. Bedivere will do it, in such a way as to throw suspicion on the Astrologer.”

  Bedivere stirred. “Do I get to kill the Astrologer as well?”

  “We’ll see,” said Darius, and Bedivere smiled briefly.

  “I’ve known John a good many years,” said Blays. “He’s not been a bad King, as Kings go.”

  “As far as our masters are concerned,” said Guillam, “a good King is one who obeys the Barons.”

  “Times change,” said Blays sourly. “And we change with them.” He shook his head, and slumped back in his chair.

  “John has to die,” said Guillam. “It’s for the best, in the long run.”

  “I know that,” said Blays. “My loyalty is to Gold, as it has always been. By threatening to draw the Curtana, John threatens my master. I can’t allow that.”

  “No more can any of us,” said Guillam.

  “It’s a pity, though,” said Blays. “I always liked John.”

  “He has to die,” said Darius, and there was enough bitterness in his voice that all three Landsgraves looked at him curiously.

  “What have you got against John?” asked Blays. “Your fellow traitors I can understand, they’re in it for the power, or the money, or a chance to settle old scores. But you …”

  “We’re patriots,” said Darius coldly.

  Blays smiled. “They might be, but you’re not. You’re in this for your own reasons.”

  “If I am,” said Darius, “that’s my business, not yours.”

  There was a ragged whisper of steel on leather as Bedivere swiftly drew his sword and set its point at Darius’s throat.

  “You’ve been holding out on us,” said Blays, smiling unpleasantly. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “We need your fellow patriots to ensure that Harald’s Court will toe the line,” murmured Guillam, “but we don’t necessarily need you. When all is said and done, Darius, you are a go-between. Nothing more. And go-betweens shouldn’t keep things to themselves, should they? I really think you ought to tell us about these other reasons of yours.”

  Darius met their gaze unyieldingly. A rivulet of blood ran down his neck as Bedivere pressed lightly with his sword. For a moment the tableau held, with no one giving way. Blays and Guillam exchanged a glance, and Guillam nodded at the terrified Lady Cecelia. Blays grabbed a handful of her hair and bent her head sharply back. Both her screams and her struggles ceased abruptly as Guillam pressed a dagger against her throat. She started to whimper, and then stopped as the blade cut into her skin.

  “Well?” said Blays.

  “I wanted revenge,” said Darius, so quietly that it took the Landsgraves a moment to understand what he’d said. Blays gestured for Guillam to put away his dagger, and released Cecelia. Bedivere took his sword away from Darius’s throat, but made no move to sheathe it.

  “I never wanted to be Minister for War,” said Darius. “I inherited the post from my father. No one gave a damn what I wanted to do with my life, nobody cared that I had no training or inclination for the work. I could have been a sorcerer, I had the talent. I had the power. The Sorcerers’ Academy offered me a place even before I reached a man’s years. But the King and my father wouldn’t allow me to go. I would be the next Minister for War, and that was all there was to it.

  “I did my best, to begin with, but somehow my best was never good enough, so after a while I just stopped trying. And the King and the Astrologer and the Champion have taken it in turns to insult and ridicule me because I’m no good at a job I never wanted anyway. After the rebellion, Harald will probably grant me whatever post I want, but that isn’t why I’ve done all this. I want revenge. I want revenge for all the years of abuse I’ve suffered, for all the insults I’ve had to swallow. I want to see everyone who ever laughed at me broken and humbled.”

  “You will,” said Blays. “You will.”

  “I want to see the King die!”

  Bedivere chuckled darkly, and sheathed his sword. Darius nodded his thanks shakily, and then reached out and took Cecelia’s hand as she ran over to kneel beside his chair. A spot of blood stained the high collar of her dress, from where Guillam’s dagger had nicked her throat. Blays rose to his feet.

  “I don’t see the need for any further discussion. Lord Darius, arrange for a meeting between Prince Harald and your fellow patriots. The sooner he commits himself to our cause, the better. And make sure everyone attends. It’s time we sorted out our friends from our enemies.” Blays smiled
coldly. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what to do if anyone tries to betray us to the King.”

  “I’ll take care of any problems,” said Darius.

  “I’m sure you will. Good night, my Lord and Lady. Sleep well.”

  He bowed slightly, and then turned and left. Guillam and Bedivere followed him out. The door swung slowly shut after them. Cecelia waited a moment to be sure they’d really gone, and then made a rude gesture at the door.

  “They think they’re so smart,” she said, dismissing the Landsgraves with a contemptuous sniff. “By the time you’ve finished working on Harald, you’ll be the power behind the throne, not the Barons.”

  Darius patted her hand soothingly. “Let them think they’re in charge for the time being, my dear. It does no harm, and it keeps the Barons happy.”

  “And after the rebellion?”

  “Afterwards, it shouldn’t be too difficult to prove to Harald who really killed his father …”

  Cecelia laughed, and clapped her hands together impishly. “And with the Landsgraves discredited, who else can he turn to for support, but us? Darius, dear heart, you’re a genius.”

  Darius smiled, and sipped at his wine. “Have you been able to entice Harald into your bed yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Darius raised a plucked eyebrow. “Are you losing your touch, my dear?”

  Cecelia chuckled earthily. “I’m beginning to wonder. Court gossip has it that he’s infatuated with the Princess Julia. I suspect the novelty of a woman who knows how to say no intrigues him. Still, he’ll get over that. And I’ll have him in my bed if I have to drag him.” She frowned thoughtfully. “King Harald. It sounds well enough, and with us behind him he’ll be great in spite of himself.”

  “I wonder,” said Darius softly. “We’re taking a lot on ourselves. If anything should go wrong …”

  “Dear cautious Darius,” said Cecelia. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. You’ve planned it all so carefully. What could go wrong now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Darius. “But no scheme’s perfect.”

  Cecelia sighed, rose to her feet, and brushed her lips across Darius’s forehead. “It’s been a trying evening, dear. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Ah yes, how is Gregory?”

  “Still having problems from when Julia hurt him, but I’m helping to cure that.”

  Darius chuckled, and Cecelia smiled at him affectionately. “Dear Darius. Sometimes I wish …”

  “I’m sorry,” said Darius. “But you know I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing.”

  “It was just a thought,” said Cecelia. “We make a good team though, don’t we?”

  “Of course,” said Darius. “Brains and beauty, an unbeatable combination. Good night, my dear.”

  “Good night,” said Cecelia, and hurried off to her tryst.

  Darius sat quietly in his chair, thinking of the meeting he had to plan for the Prince Harald. There was much to do.

  What the hell am I doing here? thought Julia as she followed the Seneschal down yet another dimly lit corridor, but she already knew the answer. With so many worries and problems crowding her head, she’d had to find something to do, or go crazy. The Seneschal’s expedition to rediscover the lost South Wing had seemed a heavensent opportunity, but she was beginning to have her doubts. She’d been walking for what seemed like hours, mostly in circles, through what had to be the most boring corridors Julia had ever seen. She was beginning to think the Seneschal was doing it on purpose.

  He hadn’t seemed all that pleased to see her when she’d first approached him about the expedition, but then, the Seneschal rarely seemed pleased about anything. Tall, painfully thin and prematurely bald, his aquiline features were permanently occupied by doubt, worry and a frantic desire to get as much done as possible before everything fell apart around him. He was in his mid-thirties, looked twenty years older, and didn’t give a damn. His faded topcoat had seen better days, and his boots looked as though they hadn’t been polished in years. He was fussy, pedantic and bad-tempered, and those were his good points, but he was also the best damn tracker the Castle had ever known, so everybody made allowances. Lots of them. When Julia first found him, he was scowling at a large and complex map, while a dozen heavily armed guards waited impatiently and practised looking evil. One of the guardsmen spotted Julia approaching, and tapped the Seneschal on the arm. He looked up and saw Julia, and his face fell.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “I’ve come to join your expedition,” said Julia brightly, and then watched interestedly as the Seneschal rolled up his eyes and shook his fists at the ceiling.

  “It’s not enough that the maps are hopelessly out of date. It’s not enough that my deadline’s been brought forward a month. It’s not enough that I’ve been given twelve Neanderthals in chain-mail as my guard! No! On top of all that, I get lumbered with the Princess Julia as well! Forget it! I’m not standing for it! I am the Seneschal of this Castle and I will not stand for it!”

  “I knew you’d be pleased,” said Julia.

  The Seneschal seemed torn between apoplexy and a coronary, but finally settled for looking terribly old and put upon. “Why me, Princess? It’s a big castle, there are hundreds of other people you could annoy. Why not go and persecute them instead?”

  “Now don’t be silly,” said Julia briskly. “I promise I’ll try really hard to be helpful and not get in the way.”

  The Seneschal winced. “Must you? You always do so much more damage when you’re trying to be helpful.” He noticed the stormclouds gathering on Julia’s brow, and sighed resignedly. “Oh, all right then. If you must. But stay close to me, don’t go off on your own, and please, Princess, don’t hit anyone until you’ve checked with me first.”

  “Of course not,” said Julia innocently. The Seneschal just looked at her.

  Which was why, some time later, Julia was boredly following the Seneschal down a dimly lit corridor somewhere at the rear of the Castle, and rapidly coming to the conclusion that this had not been one of her better ideas. And then the Seneschal took a sharp right turn, and everything changed. With all its many corridors and halls it was inevitable that parts of the Forest Castle would fall into disuse, and Julia felt her interest reviving as it became obvious that nobody had walked this corridor in years. The wood-panelled walls were dull and unpolished, and thick cobwebs shrouded the empty lamps and wall brackets. The Seneschal called a halt while two of the guards lit the lanterns they’d brought with them, and then he led the party on—down the corridor. Julia drew the dagger from her boot and carried it in her hand. The dim light and the quiet reminded her uncomfortably of the Darkwood.

  The corridor eventually branched in two, and the Seneschal stopped the party again while he consulted several maps. Julia moved cautiously forward and studied the two branches. The left-hand fork seemed to curve round and head back the way they’d come, while the right-hand fork led into an unrelieved darkness that raised the hackles on the back of her neck. Julia shook her head to clear it, and made herself breathe deeply. The Darkwood was miles away. A little darkness couldn’t hurt her. Julia clutched tightly at the hilt of her dagger, as though for comfort, and smiled grimly. Even after all this time, she still needed a lighted candle in her room at night before she could sleep. Like Rupert before her, the long night had left its mark on Julia. Her heart jumped suddenly as she realised there was someone standing beside her, and then it steadied again when she recognised the Seneschal.

  “Which way?” she asked, and was relieved to find that her voice was still steady.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said the Seneschal testily. “According to all the maps, we should take the left-hand branch, but that feels wrong. That feels very wrong. No, to hell with the maps, we have to go right. Into the darkness.”

  “I might have known,” muttered Julia.

  “What? What was that? I do wish you wouldn’t mumble, Princess, it’s a very annoying habit.”
>
  Julia shrugged, unoffended. The Seneschal’s perpetual air of desperation made it impossible for anyone to take his remarks personally; he was so obviously mad at the world, rather than whoever he happened to be addressing at the time.

  “Why are we looking for the South Wing, sir Seneschal?”

  “Because, Princess, it has been lost for thirty-two years. That’s lost, as in missing, unable to be found, vanished from human ken, absent without leave. It may not have been a particularly impressive Wing, as Wings go, but we were all rather fond of it, and we want it back. That’s why we’re out looking for it. What else should we do—throw a party to mark the thirty-second anniversary of its loss?”

  “No, sir Seneschal,” said Julia patiently. “I meant, why are we looking for it now? You’ve managed without it all these years, why is it suddenly so important?”

  “Ah,” said the Seneschal, and peered dubiously at the Princess. “I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll just make my life even more of a misery.”

  “Got it in one,” said Julia cheerfully.

  The Seneschal sighed, glanced furtively at the waiting guards, and then gestured for Julia to lean closer. “It’s not exactly a secret, but I’d rather the guards didn’t know what we’re after until they have to. I’m sure they’re all perfectly loyal to the King… but why take chances?”

  “Get on with it,” said Julia impatiently, intrigued by the Seneschal’s uncharacteristic nervousness.

  “We’re looking for the South Wing,” said the Seneschal quietly, “because that’s where the Old Armoury is.”

  Julia looked at him blankly. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “The King intends to draw the Curtana,” said the Seneschal, “and the Curtana is in the Old Armoury.”

  “Got it,” said Julia. “I’m with you now.”