by Dave Duncan
About Queen Sea-jewel, I was less certain. She, too, was inclined to plumpness, but her maids had dressed her well. Her hair was silver, a striking contrast to eyes and skin darker than most. She was conversing readily enough, yet I felt that her vivacity was less genuine than her husband's. She was acting a part, I thought, doing what queens do in public. In private she might behave otherwise, but I could not guess how that might be.
Princess Nightingale was of the age at which princesses are married off. She had her mother's dark coloring. I prefer to describe young ladies as beauties whenever I can, but I confess that she was too slender for my taste, too fragile. To my critical eye, her smiles appeared forced and her movements uncertain. This public display was a strain for her, although some of that shyness could be attributed to her youth. She seemed strangely uninterested in the young men vying for her attention, which suggested an absent lover, of course.
Prince Just-blade was a boy barely into his growth spurt. Although princes are notoriously precocious in matters of the heart, he was too young to be pursuing girls. He was having considerable trouble just staying awake, fighting back yawns. He did not look like a juvenile monster who would plot his father's demise, but that did not mean that someone else might not make such arrangements on his behalf.
So there was the royal family of Verlia.
I turned my attention to the host, Lord Fire-hawk. Again I convinced myself that I could see a resemblance to the legendary ancestor of Liberation days, but I was generalizing. Juss had been a very typical native of the Land Between the Seas, and so was Fire-hawk. He was tall, dark, and sinister. His eyes were never still, the rest of his features immobile. I could read nothing from his face at all. There was too much background noise for me to make out what was being said, so I had to judge the speakers' words by the effects they produced. Fire-hawk rarely seemed to jest, and when he did, I detected false notes in the resulting laughter. I assumed that his wit could bite.
That one, I decided, was dangerous.
His wife, Lady Rose-dawn? Tall, dark, stunning. A year or two past the prime of her beauty, perhaps, but still the most striking woman in a hall that contained more than its share of beauties. The strain of entertaining the royal family for almost two weeks was showing on her, though. She looked jumpy, worried … or was that only my overheated imagination at work? To be fair, I doubt if I would have reached that conclusion had I not been searching for suspicious behavior. No one else would have noticed anything amiss.
The two stripling pages serving the royal couple were her sons, so Towering-oak informed me.
I went on to inspect the senior nobles and officials and courtiers present, the young blades and the old foxes. I learned nothing of importance, for I did not know who mattered. I wished I had a better guide. Had I asked my young companion to name the persons in that hall most likely to be conspiring against the king's life, he would just have stared at me in bewilderment.
Who had arranged for me to be rushed to this place? Who had prompted the nameless bureaucrat to offer me that priceless bribe? By definition, kings have more influence at court than anyone else.
If High-honor was not the intended victim, then he was the most likely conspirator. What could he be up to?
Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I have met them too often to deny their existence, although I grant that they are rare, and usually very shy. I sensed one in Still Waters that night.
The veranda was open on three sides to the gardens, stone arches leading out to lawns and shrubberies and shiny pools, with fountains tinkling and night-blooming flowers scenting the air. It was hard to tell where gardens ended and indoors began. At the far end, this strange chamber flowed back into the palace and became a proper room, furnished with upholstered sofas and rich rugs, but even there it was dark. My audience sat in small groups, spread out amid potted palms and statues and great onyx tubs of roses. I was the only person clearly visible. It was an ideal setting for a murder. Any assassin worth his silken cord could have crept up on anyone there.
No need to consider the tale I should tell. This was Still Waters. I felt a need to pay tribute to its founder.
Silent, I waited for silence, for the last giggling whispers to die away. Then, "Your Majesties," I said softly, "my lords, my ladies … I would tell you of an errand boy whom the gods called to greatness." So I began.
Many of the faces were barely visible. I had located the king himself and planned to keep an eye open in his direction, but being under the light myself, with everyone else obscured in the summer night, I had trouble knowing which of the other shadows were audience and which were statuary, or chairs, or plants. Some of my listeners had drunk more than was good for them and at first they tended to murmur comments to their neighbors. They fell silent as my tale progressed, until soon the only sounds were my voice and the fountains, and faint traces of a lute in the far distance.
I thought I started with fourteen listeners, although I might have missed a couple. After a short while, there were only thirteen. Then I felt better. And then twelve. Good! Now I knew the game, I could forget thoughts of assassins without wondering what I should do if I suddenly counted fifteen. One of the departed was the king himself, as I had surmised might be the case. I was too engrossed in my storytelling to work out who else was missing. It was none of my business anyway.
I had promised to give them an hour, and I did. No one noticed their absence. No one so much as coughed.
But as I carried my audience from the slums of Algazan to the rigors of the Winter War, I sensed that another had joined our company. Call it imagination if you like. Put it down to nervous strain on top of three very long days and two very hard nights. I do not claim to have seen a clear vision. Mostly I just felt his presence. Once or twice I thought someone stood in the shadows at the corner of my eye, but when I looked that way, he had moved somewhere else. Can one feel laughter? That night I did. I wondered if the dragon god had fetched him—dragons have an odd sense of humor, so they say. I think that Juss heard my tale that night, and I believe that he enjoyed it. I made "General Brains" just a little bigger and braver than he had been. That was only fitting in the house of his line. I was careful not to diminish "General Brawn," of course.
As I described Vandok fleeing into the cave to seek refuge with Hool, I felt somehow that the ghost had left. I drew my tale to a close.
I often see tears in my listeners' eyes at such times. I rarely feel them in my own, also.
There were fourteen people present again, so I had fulfilled my task.
Now my current tale, this tale of a tale, is almost finished, also. Nobility applauded and cheered. Servants rushed in with lights and refreshments and musicians.
At close quarters, the king was as personable as I had expected. He shook my hand, congratulated me, presented me with a ring, made jocular inquiries about hiring me as royal speechwriter.
The queen was perfectly charming, just as she would have been had I bored everyone senseless.
Lord Fire-hawk, coolly grateful, dropped the requisite pouch of gold into my hand for all to see. He made some acidic remarks about my sources of information being more complete than his own records and having one of his archivists interview me in the morning. I did not mention that I knew one of his archivists already and that the lad behaved most royally in the evenings—one learns tact around kings.
Then I was dismissed, like any common lute jockey.
It happens.
Usually I frustrate the attempt by extending the conversation until the gentry forget that I am not one of them, but that night I was content to be led off to my room. Feeling I had earned my bed, I threw myself into it with a sigh of relief and a yell of agony. The sharp lump under the sheet was a diamond the size of a strawberry.
Then I knew who had instigated my appearance before the crowned heads of Verlia. Not Kraw, milords! The king must have beseeched his own god, Verl, to aid him in his suit; she had taken the opportunity to reward a certain se
rvice I had performed for her many years before. My skills have oftentimes been well rewarded, but never have I received an honorarium to match that jewel. It was a royal reward, and a divine one, also.
I did not meet the nameless courtier again. I did not speak again to any of the royal family. By the time I awoke in the morning, their train was already winding its way up the road, heading back to Uthom.
Nor was there any further talk of archives or archivists. True-valor escorted me to the palace gates. He did offer me a horse, but I declined. I'd had enough of horses for a while.
Who was the lucky lady? Who came slipping back at the same time as the king returned? Aha! A teller of tales is not a tattletale. It was long ago and far away. To reveal her name here and now would do no one harm, but even if I would, I cannot. She was a lady-in-waiting to the princess, and I had paid her no special heed when I inspected the royal party at dinner. I was not presented to her later. I could hardly ask her name in the king's presence. She had the charm of youth, if no wondrous beauty; I confess I felt a little sad that High-honor would pursue one of his own daughter's companions, but he had a reputation as a lady's man, and his people were inclined to turn a blind eye. Good kings are hard to find.
I wish I had known High-honor better. It was only a couple of weeks after the events I have described that the assassins struck him down. Queen Sea-jewel acted as regent until Prince Just-blade came of age.
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18: The Fourth Judgment
"Have you quite finished?" the merchant roared.
"I have finished that tale, Your Honor. I have others if—"
"Tarrydiddle! Arrant claptrap! You have wasted our time."
"I thought that was the whole idea? A long winter night to kill—"
"Be silent!" the soldier snapped. He looked just as angry as the burgomaster, and considerably more dangerous. "You said you had relevant information to provide, and you have been spinning moonbeams. First, it is fifty years since the death of High-honor."
"Not quite!" I protested. "Forty-five or forty-six."
"Quiet!" He fingered the hilt of his sword. "And forty-six years ago, you were not conceived."
"First-person narrative—"
"Silence! You are a liar and a common gossip, repeating ancient slanders about your betters."
I glanced around and did not see a friendly face. Even Gwill looked glum, struggling to stay awake after his ale. Fritz bared his teeth hungrily.
"Produce your evidence, Master Omar," the actress said. "Show us the fabulous jewel!"
"Alas, ma'am, it's long gone. I carried it around for months, wondering what to do with it. Then I mislaid it, or perchance a wench went through my pockets while I slept."
"Even if what you said were true," the merchant growled, "it would alt be irrelevant anyway. High-honor is of no interest to us. It's his great-grandson or great-granddaughter we want—child of Star-seeker, the son of Just-blade."
Fritz stood up and flexed his arms. "I must fetch more wood. Have I your leave to take out the garbage at the same time?"
Again all eyes went to Captain Tiger, who shrugged. "Why not? As her ladyship said a few minutes ago, it may be time to let justice take its course. We have tolerated this vagabond long enough."
Fritz began to move … I opened my mouth …
"Let him be," said a quiet, raspy voice.
We all turned to the dowager. She was staring into the fire, apparently lost in a daydream.
"My lady?" the soldier said. He was not the only one surprised by this sudden change of heart.
"Let him be," she repeated softly, not looking around. "There may well be some truth in what he said."
"Quite impossible, ma'am! I might just accept that he could have been in Verlia as an adolescent twenty years ago, but never forty-five." He was reminding her that his eyesight was much better than hers.
For a moment the room seemed to hold its breath.
She sighed, still studying the embers. "I remember High-honor, and he was much as Master Omar described him. The tale was embellished, no doubt, but these storytellers pass on their yarns to one another, and I daresay that some such event occurred. Let him be."
Tiger shrugged and released his sword.
Gwill looked relieved. "If we are about to judge between Master Tickenpepper's story and Master Omar's, then I do feel that Master Omar's had a more professional polish …" He paused to sneeze and did not continue.
No one else was interested.
Fritz snarled like a hungry lion pouncing on a thorn bush by mistake. He went stalking over to the door and donned a fur cloak that must have been stitched together from the pelts of several bears. Wind howled joyously around the room for a moment, swirling the ferns on the floor, and then the great door boomed shut behind him.
"Rosalind, child," the old woman told the fireplace, "I think the time has come to tell these people who you are."
The maid shrank, cowering low on the bench. "Yes, m-m-m-my l-l-lady." She glanced to and fro in sudden panic, seeking escape, a hare cornered by a dog pack.
"Why not go fetch the casket?" Still the old woman had not looked around.
"Yes, m-m-my l-l-lady!" The girl rose and scurried to the stairs.
Frieda jumped to her feet and grabbed my padded shoulder. "Quick! Come with me!"
She darted around the counter, grabbing the lantern on the way, and disappeared into the kitchen. Surprised, I rose to follow her, shuffling in the cuffs of Fritz's pants.
The kitchen was much smaller than I had expected, dominated by a work table, a butcher's block, and a black iron range, presently cold. Faint odors of fresh bread still lingered from the day. When Fritz went in there, he must be constantly banging his head against the hams and copper pots and nets of onions hanging from the beams. Three skinned chickens dangled among them. Two walls were hidden by shelves bearing rows of jars, crocks, cheeses, but the one opposite the range held a window. Frieda was wrestling with the bars on the shutter.
I caught hold of her arm—my hand muffled inside a sleeve—and I eased her away from it.
"Darling," I said softly, "we do not need to look at the scenery now. It's never that great in pitch darkness, anyway."
"Idiot!" she said, pulling free. "He is going to kill you!"
"Many have felt that way. No one has succeeded yet." She was almost as tall as I, but not quite. I could smile down at the anger and fear in her gorgeous blue eyes. I could have stayed there for hours.
"He is not joking, Omar! He loved that monster. You made a fool of him. He really will be revenged on you! I have seen him beat men to dough for much less. After, he will throw you in a snowbank and leave you to die, I know he will!"
"Then give me one precious kiss, my beloved, so that I may go to the gods smiling. Just one kiss, and nothing else that happens in my life will be of any importance whatsoever."
"Oh, be serious, you lummox!" Frieda turned back to the shutter.
I swung her around and wrapped my sleeves around her.
"Do you not realize, my Goddess of Love, that it was your rich lips that brought me back here? The joyful sparkle in your eyes, the bloom on your cheek? Of course I knew that beauty such as yours is always guarded by dragons, but I lost my heart when I saw you in springtime. No threat or danger would keep me from return—"
She began to struggle. I would not have engaged in such tactics had the match not been a fair one. Frieda was a powerful woman, and I only barely maintained my hold as we shimmied and staggered together under the vegetables. I tried in vain to bring my lips to hers.
"I would kiss your toes if we had time for dalliance," I panted.
"Numbskull!" she stormed. "At least he cannot inflict brain damage on you."
"I could spend an hour worshipping your kneecaps and composing sonnets to your elbows."
I might have gone on to become quite lyrical then, had she not contrived to stamp on my left foot. I clasped it in both sleeves as I hopped up and d
own on the other, choking back execrations in Drazalian, Jorkobian, and even Wuzzian. When I finally managed to speak civilly, she was again fussing with the shutter—a single-minded woman.
"What," I gasped through my tears, "do you think you are doing?"
"The key to the stable is above the door. Fritz can't see this window from the woodshed. As soon as he comes back in, you must run across and get a horse. You probably won't have time to saddle—"
"Me? Steal a horse? On a night like this? Milady, you cast—"
"That was what you were going to do the last time, wasn't it?" She turned to me with a heart-rending flush on her cheeks.
"I was in a hurry. But you're giving me one now, and that would take all the fun out of it. No, I can never leave without you, my precious mountain blossom."
"Omar!" The catch in her voice was thrilling. "Fritz will kill you!"
"No he won't! By dawn I shall have him kissing my boots."
"Never! They are fine boots, but much too small for him."
"With me in them!"
She snorted in disbelief. "If you think that, then you are too big for them yourself."
I held out my arms to her. "Tell me you return my love. Just so I may die happy?"
"Imbecile! But now you arouse my curiosity."
"I shan't tell you what you are arousing."