by A. J. Ponder
Back at Avondale
Rufus
NAME:Rufus
CLASS:Ruling
SPECIALTY:Statesmanship
RÉSUMÉ:Has ruled the Kingdom of Avondale and kept it relatively intact for fifteen years despite pesky rumours of his incompetence.
PASSED: Diplomacy, Deportment, Reading, Writing & ARITHMATIC. (Many say this proves the vile, slanderous rumours that Rufus cannot add, and that he isn’t entirely sure about some of the alphabet, must be false.)
The people of Avondale flocked the streets near the castle, craning to hear the latest news. Above them, from his ornate marble balcony, a pompous man gloried in his ceremonial purple regalia. Yes, it was Rufus. In mid-speech, no less, revelling in his role as distressed king and father, and playing to the crowd in a way that would shame an actor. This is what Rufus was good at: show, theatre, drama. Up here on this stage, he was the much-loved, quintessential King For His People.
“It was a very sad day,” he intoned, “when my daughter disappeared two days ago.”
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, a cheeky hint of glee percolated the statement. Tishke noticed it and frowned. Her husband was about to say something he’d regret, or, more accurately, say more somethings she’d regret.
She’d wondered what idiocy had come over him to send criers out to herald a special pronouncement and create a crown holiday on a day like today? But, try as she might to dissuade him, he’d rubbed his hands together and declared he had a delicious surprise and not to spoil his fun. So now here she was, demurely stage right, and with no more idea of what he was going to say than the people milling below.
What was the man up to?
“Today, however, is a new day,” Rufus continued blithely. “For today, I find that although I have lost a daughter …” He paused dramatically—long enough for the crowd to catch its breath, but not long enough for a witticism. “ …I have gained a son.”
At this momentous news, Tishke gasped in horror, while the crowd cheered mightily. Hats were thrown in the air and horns trumpeted, blasting out the short tune Rufus had chosen.
As the last notes faded, the crowd fell silent again.
Rufus looked over the balcony and smiled his best beneficent smile. “Yes, today I announce the importynous[19] news, great news that I received from the very closest of my royal advisers.”
Savouring the moment, he spread his arms wide, the very picture of a magnanimous king, and delivered the coup-de-grâce. “Your queen is pregnant, and surely carries the son I have dreamed[20] of. The son whom my soothsayers tell me will rule you, my people, in wealth and happiness. In my dotage, and beyond!”
In response to the heartfelt cheering, up in his high balcony, the king waved his chubby hand to show the commoners just how highly he favoured them.
Below, the guards in charge of crowd control did their jobs with equal finesse. Until, still waving, the king left his stage and disappeared into the shrouded depths of the castle.
The people of Avondale were in high spirits as they left the palace grounds, more than ready to enjoy the hastily announced holiday. Not everybody stopped work for the day, however, as such high spirits are good for many lines of business, including the seedy kinds that hang around street corners. Not quite all the practitioners of such businesses had left the city to follow the princess—only most of them.
Back at Avondale,
But Inside the Castle
Tishke
NAME:Tishke.
CLASS:Ruling.
FAMILIAR:Although it has never been confirmed, rumours of a black cat in her rooms abound.
SPECIALTY:Embarrassing the king.[21]
RÉSUMÉ:Academia, ruling Avondale, and unsubstantiated reports of witchcraft.
PASSED: Reasoning (with high honours), Deportment, Reading (with high honours), Writing (with high honours) & ARITHMETIC (with high honours). Apparently, someone forgot to mention that as a girl she didn’t have a head for high-order maths like algebra and calculus.
Picture, if you will, the queen, in all her righteous wrath just offstage to the king’s left. A small figure clothed in the finest of cream silks and lace, her dress puffed up with layers of petticoats, dripping with jewellery and precious gems. This expensively attired woman’s face was red and twisted with anger and contempt, and … something else. Not the dignity one would expect from a lady of her station and abilities. No, despite the obvious expense of her outfit, she did not look the part of a queen, but more closely resembled the mad prophetess that lived at the bottom of Frillies Lane.
Unlike her husband, the queen was skimpy on flesh, and now that she had her own wits together, she relied not a whit on the fawning ensemble that is the majority of any king’s court, which only provided a stark and unwanted contrast to the polished veneer and vapidity of the king.
“A son? A frigging son!” she exclaimed the minute he stepped off his royal stage. “You promised them that the last time, you doddering old fool.” Spittle flew in a desperate attempt to escape the rising crescendo. “And those … those …”
The queen paused abruptly.
She hesitated not because she realised there were servants present and she was creating a scene, but because she was suddenly, acutely, aware the correct terminology was not in her vocabulary.
“Those useless seers of yours, what good have they ever been? They’ve never actually been right! They’ve never accurately predicted anything!
“By the gods, remember when they said my first child would be a hero, and vanquish dragons!” That was the prediction that stung the most, not the bounteous harvests that had never arrived, or the dozen or more sons they’d predicted to be born before the spring rains.
“No seers of yours have ever been of any use! They say only what you want to hear!” the queen declaimed furiously.
She stared at him with cold contempt. “Did you really think you could stop giving me Calmalot and I’d just get pregnant? It’s not so gods-cursed easy, you know.”
It seemed to Rufus that the queen would not be amenable to reason.[22] Instead, he tried a tack that nobody could argue with. “I am the king and my word is law. There will be a son.”
“And which mistress will it be this time? You overstuffed popinjay. Or have you forgotten that you haven’t exactly filled the palace with royal bastards? Bad enough that we’ve only one child, and she’s buggered off, either because she’s soft in the head, or because she noticed this whole castle is soft in the head. Either way, I guess it was for the best. She was a royal pain, and we’re well rid of her.”
Tears filled Tishke’s eyes. It was hard to be pragmatic when it was your own daughter you were talking about. All the same, it was true. Sylvalla was a major disappointment. It was unlikely she’d ever have attracted a prince fit to rule Avondale. And she definitely wouldn’t now, not after this fiasco.
The king stared at his wife and wondered if it had been worth taking her off the calming drugs. She was so compliant and happy when she was (supposed) to be taking them. (She was always careful to look vacuous even when she wasn’t.)
Tishke sighed, the hard-headed part of her filtering the pieces of this new mess her husband had created. The king wanted a son. Well, so be it. Tishke wanted a kingdom run to order. Her order. And a son was certainly not before time. If only she wasn’t still lamenting this one. “Stupid child wandering off like that, and you effectively signing her death warrant, sending all those cut-throats and ne’er-do-wells after her.”
“Er—” The king tried to interject, but Tishke was not to be stopped so easily.
“And what happened to Dirk? Pray? Just when we might need his services, he disappears. And you and your bootlicking ministers think this is a coincidence? Bah!” She spat at the king’s boots to emphasise her point.
Rufus sighed. How could he have ever thought of this woman as beautiful and refined? “Um …”
“Well, my beloved husband, I think that’s enough chit-chat, don’t you? I have a
kingdom to see to.” Rustling her skirts with a dignified vehemence, the queen spun on her heel and headed for the door.
Open mouthed, Rufus stood and watched, as with a flick of her mousy hair, the queen disappeared, clutching a long list of things to do.
Fortify the walls.
Man the walls.
Toll the nobility 2 ounces of silver, merchants 1 ounce of silver, and artisans and farmers 5 ounces of copper.
Turn the tax collectors upside down and shake hard.
Turn the ministers upside down and shake harder …
“Things to do. Things to do,” Queen Tishke fairly sang. Being crabby and busy always put her in a good humour. She was almost beginning to feel herself again. Now all she had to do was cover for the king’s idiocy, and ensure she had a son. Somehow. As queen, many people believed it was her duty to provide one, but right now that was six shades of impossible. The more usual methods hadn’t worked, not since Sylvalla, and that had been some time ago. No, she definitely didn’t want to go through all that again. Tishke was determined to find another way.
Scotch Mist
Dirk whistled something he believed to be Swan Song River, although it could easily have been mistaken for We Wish You a Merry Yuletide.
Dirk stopped whistling. In a sudden, and unwelcome, burst of inspiration (helped by the look of pain on Sylvalla’s face), he realised he was missing the type of container you need to carry tunes in.
I am in thrall to a princess, Dirk thought and found he was not as unhappy about that as he might have imagined. He looked back at the little minx sitting atop her pony, and began listing all the reasons she was the most annoying person in the world. He hardly needed that list. All he needed was to remember that he was now essentially the property of a young princess with a royal ego. And that she was a stubborn, wilful, headstrong, little royal handful to boot.
His mood soured, Dirk stomped down the wide, muddy road until the broken-down walls of Scotch Mist’s citadel loomed overhead. Hewn from the grey-brown bones of the mountain, their surface was almost hidden by great swathes of ivy. As they approached, they could see the guards manning the entrance were shaking down practically everyone who entered.
Sylvalla dismounted and fumbled for a couple of coins, hoping she didn’t do anything to bring attention to herself.
All her worry was for nothing. The pair were ushered through the gates and into the city, as the two previously conscientious guards suddenly had an attack of temporary blindness. It made Sylvalla’s teeth itch, because it seemed so wrong. Weren’t the guards supposed to be taking tolls? Not to mention doing their job of keeping troublemakers like Dirk out?
Dirk, on the other hand, hardly noticed—it was a phenomenon he was more than used to. A magical power called Natural Selection typically weeded out anyone stupid enough to stand in his way.
Thinking the awkwardness was behind her, Sylvalla sighed in relief. Too soon. The moment they were past, the guards returned to life. One was even brave enough to jeer, “She for sale, or a rescued damsel in distress?”
As one, Sylvalla and Dirk (and Swift, the pony) glanced back.
Both men were standing as still and solemn as if Medusa herself had turned them to stone.
Dirk was not amused. He had the kind of reputation that is earned by not ignoring this kind of nonsense. Slipping his sword from his scabbard, he considered storming the guards.
Sylvalla put her hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t, they’re not worth it.”
The two men stood there, barely breathing, until Dirk finally shrugged, turned heel, and walked away—jaw clenched.
The problem—apart from Dirk’s touchy sense of honour—was that he wasn’t sure how he should treat Sylvalla. He couldn’t treat her as a princess, as that would rather give the game away. But he could hardly ignore her as if she were a servant—her attempts to cut her hair and wear boy’s clothing weren’t fooling anybody.
“Dirk?” Sylvalla hurried to catch up with him, Swift trailing along behind her.
“My Lady.” Dirk smiled woodenly, holding his forearm in a way he’d seen gentlemen escort their ladies (of the night, mostly).
Sylvalla frowned. “You’ll be safer,” Dirk whispered.
“I know.” Sylvalla gritted her teeth. “Why the Hades else would I be hanging onto your arm, like … like, well, like someone who couldn’t walk. Just don’t try to take Swift away from me.”
“Er, whither would you go, My Lady?” enquired Dirk, equally uncomfortable with this courtly charade.
“Oh, to the marketplace,” Sylvalla exclaimed with a smile that belonged in one of her mother’s etiquette lessons. It rankled that she had to play this role, but she was determined not to let her disappointment ruin the occasion. In Avondale there had always been so many loyal subjects, guards and shameless flatterers dogging her every step, it had been hard to go anywhere or see anything.
“This way, My Lady.” Dirk moved confidently through the cobbled streets until they arrived at an open marketplace. It was filled with brightly coloured stalls selling everything, from food and jewellery to pigs on leads, snuffling in the muck on the ground.
Sylvalla’s excitement, garnished by a certain level of expectation, found only disappointment. Yes, the marketplace was busy, just as Nurse’s stories had alleged, and yes, there were plenty of colourful people: farmers, courtiers, beggars, and children (half of whom were probably also thieves), but apart from the bustle, it wasn’t nearly as fun as Sylvalla had been led to believe. Nor the produce so exotic. On top of her disappointment of the quality of the wares, there wasn’t even the faintest sniff of a quest. Some other sniffs were all too apparent. Sylvalla wrinkled her pretty nose at them until she decided enough was enough. Apparently adventures, even pathetic ones, were more difficult to find than she’d been led to believe.
Sylvalla tried again. This time with a merchant selling fabric. “A good day to you, fine sir. I’m new here, I don’t suppose you could help me?”
“Greetings, fine—ah—personages. Would you like the wool? It’s very fine.”
Sylvalla idly pretended to be interested, but it didn’t take long before she gave up all pretence of casual conversation and began to pump him for information about a quest. Or, failing that, any nearby monsters.
At the mention of monsters, he snapped, “I think you should go. And get that horse away from my fabric, or you’ll be paying for it.”
Swift showed his teeth and seemed quite reluctant as she led him away. He was hungry.
Sylvalla found him a carrot.
Dirk laughed. “Any more great quest-finding ideas?”
“Funny.” Having tried the merchants, Sylvalla decided, like a man who is lost, to strike up a conversation with a passer-by as a last resort. Her target, an old lady lugging a basket almost as big as herself, looked suspiciously at Sylvalla.
“Greetings,” Sylvalla said, cracking her face into a smile and thinking hard about how to avoid the words monster or quest since they seemed to be problematic. “Isn’t it a lovely day? You look like just the person who would know all about the local megafauna[23].”
Dirk sniggered.
Whirling, Sylvalla fixed him with a cold stare.
The old woman, taking her chance, became decidedly spry as she beat her retreat.
“So where would you go if you were looking for a quest?” Sylvalla asked in a peeved tone, watching the old lady’s basket disappear around the corner of a deserted side street. She didn’t expect much. Previously, her forays into quest-related topics of conversation with Dirk had ended with lips as tight as clams.
Not this time. This time, for reasons of his own, Dirk was more forthcoming. “To the castle, milady,” he said with the flourish of a courtier and a sly smile. He stopped mid-bow.
Swift whinnied, tossing his head.
Something was wrong. Did the air itself feel colder? More damp? Dirk glanced around furtively. “The mist is coming in,” he whispered. “I’m not even sure we
’ll make it to the castle. We need somewhere safe. Now.” He tried to keep his voice light, but this rather dashed his plans. He’d hoped to get Sylvalla into the castle where she would either betray herself, or he could perhaps help out by accidentally using the word princess.
“Now?” Sylvalla asked, trying not to let her voice stray into petulance.
“Of course!” Dirk snapped. “There will be time enough for your foolish quest tomorrow. Lodgings are what we need, and now.”
“It cannot be that bad, the merchants aren’t worried,” Sylvalla huffed. She lifted a foot—and lowered it gently. To stamp like a butterfly would undermine her projected image. At least the image she was attempting to project at the moment, of a lady traveller—no, a worldly-wise woman. I’m too young, she thought as she tried several more personas on for size. Lady traveller would have to do.
“Look more closely,” Dirk muttered.
Sylvalla looked. There were almost as many merchants, but a definite paucity of wares. Swift snorted, his eyes round. The complaint that she was not a child died in her throat.
Dirk pulled Sylvalla’s sleeve. “It’s said the locals can see in their wretched mist, and on days like this half the town comes out to murder silly foreigners and nobles caught in it—even their own kings. The last two, Phetero’s father and grandfather, were found dead after the mists descended unexpectedly. Both times their corpses were found the following morning, drained of blood. Locals deny this, of course, saying the mists themselves have a taste for royal blood. But who’d believe that when there are all these cutpurses to share the glory?”
“You don’t scare me.” Sylvalla scowled, but she didn’t protest further as Dirk escorted her briskly into a side street. The cobblestones ahead disappeared into the rising mist. The buildings here vaunted such curious frontages as The Drowned Mermaid, The Happy Piglet, and The Keg. None inspired Sylvalla with confidence; even the signs were little more than amateurish cartoons. More functional than decorative, they were for people who needed a picture because they were unable to read. Hardly suitable lodgings for a young princess.