Laris gritted his teeth, working hard to control his temper. He certainly wasn’t used to being spoken to like this. “I…I understand,” he managed.
The girl, whose head he still cradled in his lap, finally began to come around. She stared up at him, eyes vacant, clearly confused about what had happened.
“You fainted,” he told her as he helped her into a sitting position. “But there’s no cause for concern. You’ll be fine.” Judging by her expression, his attempt to console her was only making her feel more uncomfortable, so he stood and, with perhaps a tad too much dignity for one so young, clasped his hands tightly behind his back.
The heavier of the two girls peered at him with an expectant look in her eyes, as though waiting for him to say something. Laris detested how young people spoke these days. He’d heard them far too often, fumbling through conversations with a lackadaisical air that, as far as he was concerned, was an affront to all things civilized.
Nevertheless, no matter how it grated on his ears, not to mention his nerves, he did his best to emulate that which he so detested. “Uh, sorry,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I guess I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just…worried, I guess.”
As if some switch had been flipped in her heart, her expression transformed from a frown into a beaming smile. And then, to his continuing dismay, she winked at him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been winked at. Poor girl, he thought, smiling back at her, she’d probably be mortified if she knew she’d just winked at the king. He had to keep reminding himself how handsome he was now, and what a pronounced effect that had on women, especially when combined with a bit of charm. Well, some women, he thought, glancing at the head cook with a shudder.
At the time, Laris had assumed Elkar was being gracious, but now wasn’t so sure. No doubt just the thought of him having to fend off the affections of girls not even a quarter his age was uproariously funny to the man. Indeed, he was probably laughing about it right now. I should have known better, he thought. Wizards are not to be trusted.
The rotund woman lumbered past, practically bulling him over, dished up a cup of what looked like chicken broth, and took it to the girl. “Oh, you poor dear,” she cooed, handing the bowl down to her. “Here, you need to eat more to keep up your strength. Why, you’re as thin as a reed.” Listening to her now, one would never guess what a formidable disciplinarian she was.
Deciding that he’d had quite enough, the king turned...and bumped right into Girard. “Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.” Girard’s expression had always been dour, but Laris had never seen him look quite as displeased as he did now.
“Evidently not, Mr. Hasseldelf, though I’ve been standing here, right here, in this spot, for nearly five minutes. In the future, it might serve you to be somewhat more observant of what you are doing and where you are going.”
Laris had to bite his tongue hard on this one. Why you impudent worm, he thought. But what he said was, “Yes, sir, my apologies, sir.” This was a side to his servant he’d never seen, which begged the question—what else might he not know?
After reading the note, Girard peered down his nose at him for a time, as though taking his measure. Then, with unexpected flourish, he spun around, motioning Laris to follow. While the king trailed his servant-turned-supervisor to Rodan knew where, parts of what the girl had said began replaying in his mind: I heard the fear in his voice. A hundred to one. We can’t hold.
Laris had no idea morale had dropped so low. His advisors had clearly been sugarcoating things for him. Before falling ill, he’d taken a more active role in Rogar’s military--in everything, for that matter. There was a time when he wouldn’t have dreamed of relying on go betweens. Over the past couple of years, however, his body and mind had grown so feeble that he’d had little choice.
His anger sparked anew. If that girl’s father proves representative of the entire army, we won’t last a day. No force can triumph unless they first believe they can triumph. As soon as I’m finished with this investigation, I will talk to the men, to all the people, and let them know that, whatever comes, their king is with them. Whether I’ve found the traitor or—
Girard came to a sudden halt. When the king looked up, he was assaulted by an unmistakable stench. “The privies?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Girard said. “All of them. Shovel them out and bury the dung in that trench over there.”
Laris couldn’t believe his ears...or nose. He obviously hadn’t given this plan of his enough thought, seeing how not once, not in his most dire imaginings, had he foreseen anything like this happening.
Girard arched an eyebrow at him and, for the first time since Laris had known him, smiled. Not a warm, genuine smile, but rather a thin, nasty smile that made him look cunning. “The shovel’s over there,” he continued with apparent glee. “I’ll be back to check on your progress later.”
Laris didn’t move. I’m the king, he thought. Kings do not shovel dung.
“Do you believe yourself above such lowly work, Mr. Hasseldelf?”
It took every bit of Laris’ considerable will not to reveal himself then and there, and send good old Girard to the lowest levels of the catacombs. “Uh, no sir. My apologies, sir,” he said instead. “I’ll get right to it.”
Girard scoffed at him, clearly skeptical, then turned and walked away.
As the king sunk the metal tip of the shovel into the first mound, his doubts about his servant’s innocence greatly intensified. Regardless of his youthful guise, Laris was an old man, an old man who had very nearly been poisoned to death. While it was true he was on the mend, this was too much to ask of his body, too much too soon. If you are guilty, he thought, you will regret this. Oh yes, sorely regret it.
Before long, as he knew would happen, his shoulders began to ache, his legs began to shake, and sour, pungent smelling sweat began to flow from his pores. He needed to gain Girard’s trust, yet at this rate how could he? If he were unable to finish the privies, Girard would believe laziness was the cause, and there was nothing, as far as Laris knew, the man abhorred more. Must at least try, he thought.
For the next couple of hours, Laris walked back and forth dozens of times, scooping and bending, shoveling and tossing, on and on without rest. The sun, as though mocking his efforts, shone down without pity, sailing its ship of fire across the great ocean of the sky until his skin began to crack and burn—his real skin, that is. The illusion, of course, remained unaffected. To all passerby’s, he looked as fresh-faced and unblistered as before.
By the time he was halfway done, his suffering had risen to epic proportions, far beyond what most men could endure. At one point, he became so wracked with pain that he leaned over and, for several minutes, vomited into the trench. But as his strength failed, his resolve stiffened. He would not yield. His honor and pride were at stake. He needed to do this, needed to prove to himself that he could. Failure was no longer an option. If I fall, he vowed, it will be because I have died.
Shortly after, the most extraordinary thing began to happen—he began to feel better. The change was at first subtle, becoming more pronounced the longer he labored. He felt as though he had been climbing up the side of a steep mountain, had finally reached the summit, and was now starting down the other side.
When he tossed the last shovelful of manure into the trench, he stood very still, savoring the feel of his heart pumping in his chest, and of his lungs filling and emptying of air. His surroundings, undoubtedly in response to his exhausted state, appeared to be breathing with him. “I’ve done it,” he panted. “I finished.”
Experiencing a sudden euphoria, he flung the shovel to the side and, with a chuckle, plopped down on the ground. His legs began to cramp almost immediately, but his smile only broadened. He was completely spent, and it felt wonderful. He felt alive again. He had always said that exercise was good for the soul, as well as the body. In fact, before becoming ill, he’d prided himse
lf on his athletic prowess.
Sitting there, rubbing his legs, he could tell he’d purged some of the poison from his system, regaining a modicum of the strength he’d thought forever lost. Just how much could he recover? The day was bright and clear. Anything seemed possible.
Laris took in his surroundings with a glad heart, enjoying the sunshine on his face and wind in his hair, simple pleasures he’d almost forgotten about while wasting away behind thick stone walls. He watched, feeling delightfully anonymous, as his people went about their daily business. From his vantage, he could see the shingled rooftops of houses and winding cobblestone streets. One man swept the walk in front of his barbershop. Another, a little farther down, nailed lengths of lumber together, building what looked to Laris like an ox cart. People—his people, milled up and down the streets, moving with the sort of casual deliberateness that came from living their entire lives in peace.
He’d been seeing the world through a haze, but now the fog was lifting, and everything sparkled like new. Colors were brighter. Details were sharper. He felt like a blind man, opening his eyes one fateful morning to behold the dawn. The moment stretched, so perfect in its honesty that it filled him with a deep sense of wonder, the kind normally reserved for the very young or very old. Today he was both.
“Mr. Hasseldelf!” Girard shouted as he approached.
Laris jumped, jarred from his reverie.
“Lounging about on the job, are we, Mr. Hasseldelf?”
The king scowled at him. His muscles were still cramping, but he wasn’t about to give the infernal man the satisfaction of thinking he’d beaten him, so he forced himself back up. His legs trembled under the strain, threatened to buckle, then at the last moment decided to hold.
“No sir,” he said with false vigor. “I’ve finished the privies, sir. I was just awaiting your return.”
Girard seemed annoyed by this, annoyed that he had to swallow his reprimand. “Oh, you did, did you?” he asked as he stepped past and began to inspect the stalls. “Well, let’s see what kind of worker you are, shall we? If you’re going to do a job halfway, you might as well not do it at all.
Hmm, yes, not too bad,” Girard admitted with a smirk, “though the rim on this one could stand a good scrubbing, but I suppose that can wait until tomorrow. Well, Mr. Hasseldelf, you did a passable job—for your first attempt. Now, go clean up, and make sure to take a brush to those fingernails. I don’t want to see a spot of filth beneath those nails. When you are done, meet me in the kitchen. It’s nearly time for his Majesty’s dinner. He’s not feeling well, you know, so we mustn’t be late.” With that said, Girard turned on his heels and, with a purposeful stride, walked quickly away.
Seems he cares for me after all, Laris thought. Girard had tried to conceal his feelings about the king’s failing health, but the concern in his eyes had been undeniable. Laris pondered the implications of this as he washed up, did some rudimentary stretches, and headed for the kitchen. Hopefully he would arrive in time to track the route his wine took before reaching his lips, discovering in the process who handled it, as well as, with any luck, who had surreptitious access to it.
As he hurried into the kitchen, the same two girls from before stared at him with open admiration, laughing and talking behind their hands while watching him hobble past. Young people, he thought.
Girard was already busy assembling the king’s dinner plate by the time Laris found him. He never dreamed so much effort went into preparing his meals. Every detail was scrutinized. Girard shaped the potatoes just so, trimmed and cut the meat with a surgeon’s precision, then even went so far as to scoot a single pea from the edge of the plate back into the main pile. When Laris asked him why he’d done it, he said because it was disrupting the aesthetic harmony of the meal.
Well, the king thought, that decides it. A man devoted enough to do that for me, cannot, despite his terse demeanor, be plotting my death.
“I need to garnish this,” Girard said. “Where’s Maggie?” He scanned the room and shook his head. “Where is that girl?” he grumbled. “Never around when you want her.” After a pause, he turned to the king and, with an appraising look in his eyes said, “Mr. Hasseldelf, I have decided to entrust you with a very important task.”
Laris tried not to cringe as he considered just what this very important task might entail.
“Go down to the cellar and open one of the hundred-year-old bottles of Greenhaven Select. Make certain the wine hasn’t gone to vinegar. If you’re unsure, ask somebody. If it has, throw it away and open another one.” He pointed to the king’s goblet. “Fill his cup exactly three quarters of the way full, and return the bottle to its slot.”
Laris snapped to attention like a soldier. “Yes sir. I’ll take care of it, sir.”
“This is very important,” Girard said, narrowing his eyes. “Not like shoveling dung.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Girard nodded, muttered something about finding good help, and then went to find Maggie. “Better not catch her with that pageboy again,” he said as he walked away.
Wanting to take full advantage of his good fortune, Laris went immediately to the door to which Girard had gestured and descended the steps into the cellar, the damp walls of which housed, arguably, the finest collection of port wine in all the four kingdoms. Ah, Greenhaven Select, he thought as he pulled the dusty bottle from its rack. How could you be the cause of so much trouble?
After wiping it clean with his handkerchief, he cradled the bottle in his arms, much as he would an infant, and struggled back up the steps. Opening the bottle proved a bit more troublesome than expected, but after some twisting and tugging, he eventually managed it. Doing his best to keep his hands steady, he poured forth the crimson liquid into the goblet, making whole that which was incomplete.
Of the several he possessed, this cup was definitely his favorite. It was simple yet elegant, made entirely of white gold, encircled halfway between rim and neck by a string of sky-blue sapphires. To him, it was a thing of great beauty, especially when it was full. People could disappoint you, could leave you, but not wine, not his Greenhaven Select. He admired it for a moment longer, then re-corked the bottle and headed back to the cellar. This time, however, he did not descend the steps. Instead, he peeked around the edge of the threshold and waited.
About fifteen minutes passed before Girard, looking highly annoyed, returned with the parsley garnish. He placed it with care on the side of the plate, and then peered about the room, presumably searching for his new assistant. When he didn’t find him, he picked up the tray and headed towards the hallway.
Laris, with a complete disregard for the ravaged condition of his legs, ran down the stairs. Legs be damned, he thought as he returned the bottle to its slot. When he stepped back into the kitchen, Girard was gone. Laris rushed to catch up, then followed at a discreet distance. Unless something had occurred in the short time since it had been out of his sight, the wine remained uncontaminated.
Several turns later, Girard came to a stop before the doors to the king’s bedchambers. Frowning deeply at the two guards who stood there he said, “Kindly move aside, I am here to give the king his dinner.”
“He’s sick,” Sergeant Strumbald informed him. “As well you know. Until he tells us otherwise, our orders are the same as before.” With infuriating haughtiness, the sergeant gestured to the note on the door, the words of which were scrawled in the king’s own hand. “He is not to be disturbed. Not even to eat.”
“That’s preposterous!” Girard declared, becoming red in the face. “He couldn’t have meant me, too. I always bring him his meals when he’s not feeling well. Been doing it for the past twenty-five years. If he’s ill, the last thing he needs is to starve himself. Now, let me pass!”
The guards exchanged a quick glance, the meaning of which was obvious. They were enjoying themselves at Girard’s expense. Laris supposed he should have been pleased, what with the way his servant had been ordering him ab
out, but he wasn’t. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to get angry. As the king’s personal assistant, Girard was due a certain level of respect, more, at the very least, than what he was receiving at the moment.
Sergeant Strumbald inflated his barrel chest and tugged at one end of his thick black moustache, making it clear that it was going to take more than an irate servant to move him. “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” he said, eyes betraying a hint of mirth. “Orders are orders. Besides, the door is locked from the inside.”
Girard just stood there, fuming. Then, seeming to diminish in stature, he took a step back and set the tray on the floor. “Very well,” he conceded. “If it must be, but give him this when he wakes.”
“We would be happy to, sir,” the younger guard assured him, eying the tray with hungry eyes.
“I’m sure,” said Girard.
Going to have to have a talk with them, Laris thought. These two need a lesson in humility, a refresher course on how to respect thy elders.
Attempting to salvage what dignity he had left, Girard straightened his back, set his jaw and, without so much as a nod to the king, walked away. Laris followed him dutifully.
A few minutes later, Girard stopped in front of what the king could only assume was the door to his private room. In all the years they’d known one another, it had never occurred to Laris to ask him where he lived.
“Well, Mr. Hasseldelf,” Girard said in a crisp tone, “you performed adequately today. I will expect you back at the kitchen by four-thirty a.m., not a second later. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Girard stared blankly at him, opened his mouth to speak, then turned around and inserted his key into the lock. Opening the door and stepping inside, he said, “Goodbye, Mr. Hasseldelf. Make certain to get plenty of rest. Tomorrow, I won’t be so easy on you.”
After the door shut in Laris’ face, he walked to one of the wooden benches along the wall and had a seat. His old bones thanked him for the rest. What now? he wondered. All he’d done so far was confirm what he’d already suspected—Girard was no traitor. Heaving a sigh, he leaned his head back and stared up at the frescoed trim separating the wall from the curved ceiling. A long line of painted faces stared down at him, cherubs in various positions of flight, smiling at him as though they knew something he did not. “What am I missing?” he asked them.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 18