One for the Morning Glory (16 page)

"It does," they said, quietly, together, and the three walked close to each other for a long walk more, but what errands they ran on, though dark and bloody and in the service of Amatus, were much of a piece with what has gone before. By dawn the city, if there had been some carrion bird that could smell the difference, stank of spies' blood and goblins' guts. And Duke Wassant and Sir John slept late the next day, for Cedric ordered that they not be disturbed.

It might be thought odd that they slept without dreams, or woke smiling to the bright afternoon sunlight, but the ways of the human heart are peculiar.

It was some weeks later, and word was down from the mountains that the snow had begun to melt in the Isought Gap. In that time the spy hunts had been fierce, and Waldo's agents had been killed or captured in great numbers, so that the city was already a battleground of sorts. Moreover, there had been two goblin uprisings, both serious, and Amatus himself had finally taken a punitive raid down into their tunnels to slaughter goblins, destroy their dwellings, and scatter white magics about.

There were more of them and they were better organized than ever before, but they fought less well and died more easily. When captured and tortured, all they would reveal now was that there was a new goblin king, and he was different.

"He must be, to keep them obedient so far away from himself," the King said grimly to Cedric, as the two of them climbed the winding back stairs to the Throne Room. "They have never before been able to follow orders once separated from their army—indeed they've barely had enough concentration to obey while they were still in their ranks. This is bad news, indeed, and would be even if Waldo were not on the move, or not in league with them—and I'm
sure
that he is both."

They swept by a long, graceful tapestry, woven by Psyche, depicting the history of the Kingdom since Boniface had assumed the throne. She filled in a new section every year, showing some event of the year, almost always including Boniface, so that as Boniface walked by the tapestry, Cedric noticed that his face became more and more like the one on the tapestry, until finally the resemblance was perfect.

"I have always found it odd that this castle is so snug and warm," Cedric said, the thought springing from who knew whence. "It seems untypical and not at all like a story."

"I am glad you did not say that it wasn't real," the King said, "for the whole power and strength of the Kingdom rests in its questionable reality. But there is wisdom in your question. Now, in most stories, there is a wicked usurper, which is why the castle is cold and drafty—for atmosphere, as it were. After he is overthrown—"

"Yes, I see," the Prime Minister said, "it is always said then that the castle rings with joy and warmth and love, and that they live happily ever after. But that is not this castle either—great sorrow has been known here."

"But never great sorrow without a point," the King said, "for if that were ever to be, the Kingdom would be merely real, and vanish to where your lap goes when you stand up."

There was now but one flight of stairs remaining for Cedric to ascend with his King, and he knew that he was being given hints of secrets that normally were only known to the Royal family, so with his mind on his diary for that night, he asked, "And how do kings come by this knowledge?"

"We read," Boniface said, and they were at the door of the Throne Room.

Most of the Council of War was already there waiting for them, milling around and chatting nervously under the War Flag, the giant Hand and Book that hung in the Throne Room in time of national danger. Boniface elected to get a glass of wine and a little cheese, and to greet some nobles from outlying areas, before plunging into business, so after the burst of chatter when the King, Prime Minister, and General of All the Armies (counting Cedric in both roles) had entered, no one settled into seats.

Many of the nobility were there, especially those of the country south of Iron Lake, where the invasion would first thrust if it carried through the Isought Gap, but from all over the Kingdom as well. The old Count who had pretended for so many years to be Calliope's father was there as well, a brooding sadness about him which made Cedric wonder if he would carry out his part. Others wandered about, some trying to be effete and decadent and talk only of art and gardens, some trying to be bluff and hale and talk only of the hunt and the theatre, and a few quiet sad ones watching it all, thinking mainly of lives to be lost and lands burned, and wishing only to be themselves.

Duke Wassant and Sir John Slitgizzard were there, naturally, for they were widely known to be the Prince's men, and it was expected that whenever Amatus became King they would hold high offices, do his bidding, and help to keep his throne steady. They were so well suited to the job that there was little envy extended toward them, and much relief that the wild comrades of the Prince's younger days were now the steel-true friends of his maturity. They sat next to each other, the Duke polishing off a fine pastry he had been unable to resist, and Sir John sipping a strong brown tea of a kind that had only recently come in across the Great Desert to the east.

"I wonder whence this comes into our story," Sir John said, "for it seems to me such stories must be older than tea."

" 'Anything really old—not just in years—can have any number of times within it,' " the Duke quoted, licking the cream from his fingers surreptitiously, and wishing he did not desperately crave another pastry. "Golias always used to say that. I've no idea what it meant, but it seems to answer your question."

Sir John nodded. In his experience the best answers were that way.

Psyche and the Twisted Man came in together, a few moments later. The arrival of the Prince's Companions seemed to cheer everyone.

The Prince's arrival did not. Amatus and Calliope entered together, Amatus dressed properly for the occasion in half-triolet, trouser, and low court slippers, but seemingly in haste. Calliope was disheveled in a way that nearly shouted that she had just come from a bed. All eyes went to them, and widened.

The old Count strode to Calliope and slapped his purported daughter across the face with a sound like a belt hitting a drumhead. Tears welled in Calliope's eyes, but she stood upright and glared at him, her chin never dipping. The Count turned to the Prince.

"Highness, I have served under your grandfather, and under your father. It would seem my daughter has now chosen to serve under you. For the damage done my body in battle, I have only gratitude to give your grandfather. For the damage done my treasury in preparation for this war, I have only gratitude to give your father . . .

"And for what you have done to my honor,
Highness,
and that of my family, I give you such loyalty as a subject must. And no more. The friendship between our houses, though I have more to lose than you, is severed, and it will not grow together again. You may have this strumpet sprung from my loins, and use her as you like—she is your plaything to coddle like a poodle or butcher like a pig for your pleasure. I shall not stay to join your counsels."

Then the old Count lifted the medal given him after Bell Tower Beach, of solid gold, of which there were but eight in the Kingdom, from his neck, dandled it by its silk ribbon a moment so that the room fell silent with dread at what they were about to see, spat on it, flung it at Amatus's feet, turned with a great flash of his scarlet cape, and was gone. The heavy oak door thudded shut behind him.

The room went into an uproar, in the midst of which more than one door quietly opened and closed in the Throne Room.

Cedric shouted for order, and bellowed contradictory commands. Calliope burst into tears and collapsed against Amatus. Holding her up with his single arm, he guided her gently out. King Boniface began to echo things Cedric was shouting, especially the contradictory parts. More doors opened and closed.

Standing guard in the corner, as he was apt to be whenever anything important happened, Roderick wept openly with his men, ashamed also because a part of his mind could hardly refrain from imagining this as Act I, scene ii, of
The Tragical Death of Boniface the Good.

Among the first to slip out had been Sir John Slitgizzard, and sure enough, as he waited behind the arras in the private room behind the Throne, the door opened again and a beautifully dressed figure stepped quietly out and went up the stairs. Sir John followed him silently to a storage room in the tower.

Then Slitgazzard drew his escree and shoved the door open.

The lord still held his quill in his hand, and the little bits of string used to tie up the message were stuck to his triolet, but it was clear that the pigeon had already flown—its cage was empty. Sir John lunged, putting his escree through the shocked lord's throat. The traitor crumpled to the floor.

Drawing a pismire from his swash, he stepped over the corpse, leaned far out the window, and peered upward. A lone pigeon was still circling its way upward, as they will when they look for altitude and have a long way to go. It was barely more than a speck, and no one knew the limitations of a pismire better than Slitgizzard, but nonetheless he tested the lovelock, cocked the chutney, rested one wrist upon the other, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger very gently. The pismire spat fire.

There was time for a long breath, and then great burst of feathers burst from the bird. Something broken and dead dropped down toward the courtyard. Looking down at one junior lackey who stood staring open-mouthed at it, Sir John shouted, "A gold flavin if you get me that bird!"

The pigeon hit the parataxis and bounced onto the low tiled roof of the clerihew, where it lay still. The boy scrambled up the gutter after it, and Sir John raced down the tower stairs to meet him.

The note on the pigeon's leg described the Kingdom as "on the brink of open revolt," which was not accurate, but it also contained a map and a list of force dispositions, which were. Sir John dug into his purse and tossed the junior lackey a gold flavin.

"They say you're the best shot in the Kingdom," the boy said. "They say that's why the Prince keeps you by him."

"Oh? Eh?" Slitgizzard said, for though normally he was the sort of courteous man who pays attention to children, he had been engrossed in realizing how much had been on this map and in this note. "Oh." He looked into the boy's shining eyes and smiled, for he himself as a boy had worshipped a soldier or two. "Er. That is, this was undoubtedly the best shot I ever made, or am ever likely to make, considering how much of it must be called pure luck. And even if it is not, certainly the most important. I am afraid I must go have a chat with our Prime Minister." He smiled at the boy, who seemed to have grown an inch just by standing near him, and turned to go.

"Sir?" the junior lackey asked.

Sir John turned.

"How . . . how would I make a shot like that?"

Sir John said, gravely, "There are only three things you would have to do: practice daily for twenty years, desperately need to make the shot, and be
very
lucky."

The boy smiled slightly. "I have been practicing daily for three years, since my father let me start," he said.

Slitgizzard favored the boy with a grin that he was to remember for many years—we know, for we have a letter the junior lackey wrote when he was old, in which that smile is described—and then, squeezing the boy on the shoulder, said, "Oh, well, then, just seventeen to go."

The northern baron and his two servants had gone out together, heads bowed, walking close to one another, as if deeply concerned or embarrassed, but they no sooner rounded the corner than they were racing full tilt for the Guest Stables. Within moments they were saddling their horses.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, may I help you?" said a chubby, well-dressed groom, approaching them.

The first servant said, "Er, well, yes, I suppose—I'm afraid I'm not very good at this—"

"Oh, shut up, Rufus, I'll get it for you in a moment," the second said. "Sorry, we are in a hurry, and if we're not supposed to saddle our own mounts I hope you won't be in trouble for it but—"

"No trouble at all," said the groom, as he drew nearer. Oddly for a groom, he seemed to be paying a good deal of attention to where he stepped. "But see, this here is important—" He reached for the saddle.

"Oh, well, certainly you can help if you—" The servant died then, his throat suddenly opened by a pongee that seemed to appear from nowhere in the groom's hand. Rufus died an instant later, a kidney torn open with the next stroke, and before the baron quite knew what was happening, the homicidal groom had him backed against a wall, pongee point at the baron's larynx, and the horses were screaming at the scent of blood.

"My lord," said Duke Wassant (for of course it was he) to the baron, "I do apologize for having slain your servants, for I suspect that they were not bad men, but merely fell into your company and became so. You may console yourself that they died quickly, not at all like what is going to happen to you if the tools now glowing red in the dungeon are used with any skill. You will keep your hands where I can see them, and you will come with me."

As the old Count passed through the gateway, a voice whispered, "A man who has been wronged may seek to avenge it."

"He may." The Count's tone was noncommittal, but he stopped walking.

"Where a master does ill the servant may seek another."

"He may do that as well."

The archway was in the oldest part of the castle, so old that no one quite had a name for it anymore, though a few very old people sometimes imagined they had heard people name it when they were small. The stones were encrusted with dead moss of a type no longer known, on which grew live moss of a type now rare. In the vaguely damp and musty odor, there seemed to have been no breath of air for a century, and the Count heard no sound but the stranger's voice.

"Were you to receive a visitor at your manor—"

"I am hospitable to visitors."

"I see. Then you can expect—" There was a low grunt, followed shortly by the sort of scream one might be able to make if a preternaturally strong being had its entire fist in one's mouth . . . followed by many short screams, and cracking noises that suggested finger bones.

"I will take him from here," said the voice of the Twisted Man.

"Could you not ask him questions first?" the Count said. "He might talk . . . without . . ."

There was a wrenching sound like a wing being torn off a chicken, another smothered shriek, and throttled sobbing.

"I was promised I might play with him until he talks," said the Twisted Man. "I shall take him down to the dungeon for just that purpose . . . and then he will have his chance to talk. It may be he will talk and spoil my fun at that time . . . or it may be that I will have the chance to play more. So I shall play with him on my way down there, to help him think about whether he wants it to stop when we get there . . . or to be only beginning."