The king turned to look at Sebastian. 'Now, Mr Darke, that only leaves you to take care of. Let me see now – who would be the best person? Ah, yes. Malthus!'
The king's skinny little personal assistant jumped forward as though he had been prodded in the buttocks with a hot knife. 'Yes, your majesty?'
'Take Mr Darke to our most opulent guest room and ensure that he wants for nothing. You will personally see to his every wish.'
'Of course, your majesty.' Malthus turned to Sebastian and bowed his head in reverence. 'If you would care to follow me, Mr Darke?'
Sebastian was thrilled. He just wished his mother were here to see him, standing in this fabulous place and being treated like a lord. He glanced at Princess Kerin and saw that she was smiling at him once again.
'What do you think of Keladon so far?' she asked mischievously.
'Your royal highness, it's beyond my wildest dreams!' he told her. 'I never expected to be treated so grandly'
'It is only what you are worth,' she assured him. 'I'll let you get settled into your chambers and I'll look forward to your performance tonight.'
'Umm . . . yes, tonight.' Sebastian had temporarily forgotten about his impending debut and her words seemed to unleash a whole flock of butterflies in his stomach. He bowed once more to King Septimus, and as he did so, he noticed that the king was gazing at his niece, his face quite expressionless – and yet once again Sebastian's elvish sixth sense seemed to tingle. He was now quite convinced that although King Septimus pretended to care for Princess Kerin, he actually despised her.
'Now, Princess,' he heard him say, 'you'll be wanting to see the special birthday present I have for you . . .'
But there was no time to dwell on it. Malthus was leading the way towards the magnificent open doors of the palace and Sebastian had to follow. Hopefully, he would have the opportunity to talk to Princess Kerin later.
The huge crowd behind him cheered with enthusiasm, and as he followed Malthus, he had a wild urge to skip like a happy child. It was only by an exceptional effort that he managed to stop himself.
CHAPTER 15
PALACE OF DREAMS
Sebastian had never seen anything like it. From the cool marble-clad floors to the high, gold-embellished ceilings, this was opulence on a scale that made him want to walk around with his mouth hanging open. The walls were adorned with massive paintings and richly embroidered textiles. Huge stone pillars rose from floor to ceiling, each of them carved with a multitude of faces, figures and fantastical creatures. Every surface was encrusted with ornaments of gold and silver, decorated with precious jewels. And every doorway was flanked by armed soldiers in full uniform, brandishing swords or spears.
Sebastian was beginning to see that the stories he had heard about King Septimus's wealth were no exaggeration. He truly must be the richest man in the known world. And who would be surprised to learn that he was not eager to hand that wealth on to somebody else?
Malthus led Sebastian up a huge curving staircase, hewn from pure white marble. At intervals along the staircase, life-size paintings of austere-looking men and women, dressed in their finery, glowered down at whoever passed by.
'The kings and queens of Keladon,' announced Malthus, waving one hand at the portraits, as though he had done this so many times, he didn't even have to think about it. 'From days of antiquity right up to the present. The royal lineage stretches back to the earliest times.'
Sebastian thought that they looked a stern and fearsome bunch, the kind of people you wouldn't like to bump into on a dark night. But Malthus, who seemed to have settled happily into the role of tour guide, just rattled out a line or two about each of them with practised ease.
'That's Balthazar the Baleful,' he said, indicating a fierce-looking man with a spiky grey beard. 'He was the king who instigated the custom of the populace giving half their earnings towards the upkeep of the palace, a practice that still continues today' He gestured around at the grandeur that surrounded them. 'As you can see, we do quite well out of it.'
Now he pointed at a portrait of a short, stooped woman with a fearful squint and an expression that suggested somebody was holding a goblet of sour milk under her nose.
'Queen Wendolyn the Woeful. Her husband died three days after the wedding and she spent the entire fifteen years of her reign in floods of tears. She had to continually change her clothes because they kept shrinking. Hence the nickname.'
They climbed a few more steps and Malthus gestured at a painting of a short, rather fat little man with a red face.
'King Ferdinand the Flatulent; a good and noble ruler whose short reign was somewhat disrupted by an unfortunate habit. No doubt you can guess what that was.'
'Umm . . . flatulence? That's wind, isn't it?'
'Hmm. They say that on a good night he was able to blow out the candles without getting out of bed – if you catch my drift?'
'Right.'
'Unfortunately, one night the gas ignited and blew his bed?chamber to smithereens. A ghastly end to his reign.'
Sebastian tried to look solemn but felt a powerful urge to laugh. 'They . . . they all seem to have nicknames, don't they? How come King Septimus doesn't have one?'
Malthus glanced around quickly and lowered his voice to reply. 'He does,' he murmured. 'But nobody would ever dare use it in his hearing.' He looked around again, and now his voice was little more than a whisper. 'It's Septimus the Slaphead.'
Sebastian frowned. 'Why Slaphead?' he asked.
'Shush! Keep your voice down!' Malthus moved closer. 'It's because he's completely bald.'
'Bald? But—'
'Shush! He suffered from a nervous disorder as a child and all his hair fell out over a period of a few days. It never grew back. That's a wig he wears, and nobody's ever allowed to see him without it.'
'Then how . . . ?'
Malthus was now so close to Sebastian that he was literally whispering in his ear: I accidentally walked in on him once when he wasn't wearing it.' Malthus's face wore an expression of absolute terror at the memory. 'Luckily, I caught sight of him in a mirror before he saw me and I was able to slip back out of the room unnoticed.' Malthus rolled his eyes. 'Believe me, if he'd known, I'd have had an appointment with the executioner's axe.'
'Oh, surely not!'
'I mean it! He can be absolutely ruthless when he puts his mind to it. I sometimes think that Septimus the Severe would be a more appropriate name for him. I've heard that years ago he commissioned a wig-maker to prepare hundreds of wigs, enough to last him three lifetimes – and then he had the man put to death so he couldn't tell anybody else.' Malthus thought for a moment. 'And listen,' he added: 'you didn't hear that from me. If you suggest to anyone that I told you, I will deny it and I can assure you, it will be I who am believed, not some stranger from Jerabim.'
'Oh, have no fear, I won't breathe a word.' Sebastian couldn't help feeling that a gossip like Malthus was not the best man for a king to have as an assistant. They had reached the first-floor landing now. Malthus turned to his right and led Sebastian along a corridor, with rooms opening off at intervals.
'A word of advice,' said Malthus: 'I would go through your store of jokes and assiduously remove anything that has a reference to hair in it. Just in case. You don't want to end up like Hengist the Hirsute, do you?'
Sebastian frowned. 'Who's Hengist . . . ?'
'The Hirsute. He was a nobleman from Berundia. Very hairy fellow. Hair everywhere. Head, shoulders, arms, teeth—'
'Hairy teeth?'
'Well, maybe not the teeth, but you get the picture. Septimus took an instant dislike to him. Put it like this . . .' Once again, Malthus cast a secretive glance around. 'The two of them went out hunting javralats together and only one of them came back.' He waggled his eyebrows at Sebastian. 'Draw your own conclusions.'
Sebastian smiled but found himself going through his mental store of jokes looking for anything that could be problematic. He couldn't think of any jokes he used that mention
ed hair or wigs.
'Now,' said Malthus brightly, 'I've selected something really special for you. It's what we call the Slaughter Suite—'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Oh, relax, it's nicer than it sounds,' Malthus assured him. 'The "slaughter" bit just refers to the murals.' He opened a heavy wooden door and Sebastian found himself looking into a large, luxuriously appointed chamber, which would have been delightful were it not for the painting of an extremely bloody battle that occupied the whole of the back wall. It depicted a troop of foot soldiers being trampled into the mud by a battalion of Keladonian cavalry, mounted on vicious-looking armoured equines. Malthus led Sebastian into the room.
'That painting commemorates the magnificent victory of King Septimus over the forces of King Rabnat of Delaton. Over three thousand men hacked to pieces in one charge!'
'Lovely,' said Sebastian weakly. He tried to put the painting out of his mind and went instead to the magnificent four-poster bed in the very centre of the room. He sat on the mattress and bounced up and down a bit and had to admit it was an incredibly comfortable bed; but turning had drawn his gaze to another painting on the far wall, which seemed to depict a series of horrific tortures. Luckless individuals tied to chairs were having their fingernails pulled out, their kneecaps smashed by hammers and their tongues pierced with red-hot metal spikes. 'Oh dear,' he said.
Malthus shrugged. 'Well, I'll admit the decor leaves some?thing to be desired. But it was a toss-up between this and the rooms commemorating the Rodent Infestation and the Plague of Boils.'
'I'm sure it will be . . . very comfortable,' said Sebastian, thinking to himself that he could always use some sheets to conceal the awful pictures. He didn't want to appear ungrateful, and after bedding down on the hard ground for several weeks, anything would be an improvement.
Malthus pulled back some heavy velvet drapes and revealed a tall casement window. 'You've got a lovely view of the palace grounds,' he said encouragingly. 'And next door you've got your very own en-suite cess bucket.'
'That's . . . lovely,' said Sebastian, trying to sound delighted.
Malthus indicated an embroidered cord dangling from the ceiling. 'If you need anything at all, just pull that and a servant will attend you.' He looked around the room with an air of satisfaction. 'I'm sure you'll be most comfortable here, Mr Darke.'
'I'm sure I will too.'
'Is there anything else you need, before I take my leave?'
'Well, there is one thing . . . but I'm sure it wouldn't be possible.'
'Oh please, just ask!'
'It's my mother back in Jerabim.'
Malthus frowned. 'You want your mummy?' he asked.
'No! Not exactly. But I'd love to let her know that I've arrived here safely and that I've been employed by King Septimus.'
'No problem!' Malthus indicated a writing desk with a quill pen and some sheets of parchment. 'Just scribble down a note for her and I'll have one of our express riders deliver it. Hmm . . . Jerabim . . .' He thought for a few moments. 'If we get the note off tonight and he rides flat out, it could be there in – oh, five or six days.'
'That soon? Incredible!' Sebastian moved over to the desk and sat down.
'Just ring the bell when you're ready,' concluded Malthus. 'The servant will take it straight down to the post room. I'll see you later,' he added. 'At the performance.'
'Oh, yes. Later . . .'
Sebastian tried not to think about the performance. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, thought for a moment and then wrote a quick note.
Dear Mother,
Have arrived safely in Keladon. Everyone here very welcoming and King Septimus has engaged my services for six gold crowns a month! My first performance is tonight at a grand banquet.
On the way, Max and I met a really nice fellow called Cornelius. He's a captain from Golmira – only a little chap but he has the heart of a giant. We also rescued a princess from an attack by Brigands! It turns out she is King Septimus's niece and will be Queen ofKeladon one day. She is really nice and we are great friends. I think you would approve.
We had a bit of a bad time with some lupers on the way, but I am glad to say we are here now and everything is going as planned. I will send money just as soon as I can.
I hope you are well and not too lonely.
Max sends his regards – he's staying in the royal stables, where he's no doubt being spoiled rotten!
Your loving son,
Sebastian
Reading the note through, Sebastian couldn't help but remark to himself that it sounded like the ramblings of some deranged idiot, and he was worried that his mother would think that he was simply making it up or, worse still, had gone quite mad. He rolled up the parchment and secured it with a piece of string. He was about to ring the bell to sum?mon the servant when there was a knock at his door.
'Come in,' he said, expecting it to be Malthus with another snippet of gossip to share. But it was Princess Kerin.
CHAPTER 16
THE PLOT THICKENS
The princess stepped into the room. 'Hello!' said Sebastian. He stood up so quickly that his lanky knees caught under the writing desk and nearly over?turned it. He regained his balance and made a clumsy attempt at a bow, but she waved a hand at him as if to say that it wasn't necessary to be so formal.
'I thought I'd drop by and see how you're settling in,' she told him. He saw that she had a small, furry creature sitting on her shoulder.
'What on earth is that?' asked Sebastian.
'It's a boobah. They live in the jungles to the far south. He's my birthday present from Uncle Septimus. I thought you might like to see him.' As she spoke, the creature jumped from her shoulder, clambered up one of the bedposts and crouched up on the roof of the four-poster, making strange chattering sounds. 'I'm going to call him Tiddles,' she said.
'Why, he's almost like a little man!' observed Sebastian. He smiled mischievously. 'Perhaps you should have called him Cornelius.'
'I wouldn't let him hear you say that,' she said. Then she looked sad. 'You were right, of course. He's a lovely present but he wasn't worth the lives of my Royal Guard. Next time I will think before I act, I promise.' She walked over and then froze, looking at the mural on the wall behind him. 'Oh my goodness,' she said. 'I'd forgotten about that hideous painting!'
He smiled. 'You get used to it after a while. It's not as bad as the one behind you.' He pointed to the torture scenes and she turned to look, then winced.
'Honestly,' she said. 'Uncle's taste in art leaves something to be desired. One of the first things I'll do when I'm Queen is redecorate the guest rooms. I mean, something more understated. A nice soft magnolia, perhaps.' She turned back to look at him. 'So . . . are you all set for tonight's performance?'
He shrugged. T suppose so. I'll need to clean myself up a bit – and I'd better get a new outfit from the caravan before I go on. This one still has luper blood on it.'
She laughed. 'That was quite an adventure,' she said. She moved across to his bed and sat down on the end of it. 'Well, at least this seems comfortable enough,' she observed, bouncing up and down. She patted the coverlet with one hand. 'Come and sit beside me,' she suggested.
He did as he was told, lowering himself rather un?comfortably onto the bed. He wasn't at all sure that he should be sitting on a bed with a young woman who would soon be Queen.
'You seem nervous,' she observed.
'No!' he replied, rather too quickly. 'Not – not at all. I'm perfectly relaxed.'
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