Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools (14 page)

Septimus studied his expression in the gilt-framed mirror. He was practising a look of profound sorrow but it kept coming out all wrong. On his thin, mournful face, framed by two long waves of lank black hair, the result was more like a look of severe constipation.

'Bother!' he snapped and tried it again, screwing up his eyes and turning his thin lips down at the edges. Any time now he expected a messenger at the gates to tell him of the awful tragedy that had befallen his niece. He knew that the entire court would be watching him as he received word and he couldn't allow a single person to suspect that the news was rather less of a surprise to him than it might have been.

That's if they
had
murdered her, of course. Septimus was worried that they might have taken her hostage and would be demanding a massive ransom for her safe return: that would complicate matters considerably. But Magda, who had cooked up the whole scheme, had assured him that Brigands were far too thick to think of anything like that. They would certainly kill her; possibly even cook and eat her; but putting together a ransom demand would require somebody who could actually write – not a likely occurrence in Brigandia.

Out in the courtyard, trumpets sounded, announcing the arrival of a messenger. Right on cue! Septimus had one last attempt at a sad look in the mirror and then told himself that if all else failed, he could just cover his face with his hands and pretend to be weeping.

A high-pitched voice sounded out in the corridor. It was his personal assistant, Malthus.

'Your majesty! An urgent message from Captain Tench!'

Septimus smiled triumphantly.

Good! He had spoken to Tench that morning, in front of plenty of witnesses, voicing his concern at the lateness of Princess Kerin's return. Evidently Tench must have discovered something: hopefully the scene of a massacre. Septimus turned away from the mirror and swept imperiously to the door of his private chambers.

'Open,' he said; and the two minions who stood guard outside the door swung it open for him, to reveal Malthus, standing there looking pale and concerned in a crimson jerkin and a pair of pale-green tights.

'Your majesty,' simpered Malthus, in that familiar irritating whine. 'A messenger from—'

'Yes, yes, I heard! Lead on, Malthus. Oh, I do hope nothing has befallen that sweet child, particularly on this day of all days. Her seventeenth birthday . . . I've even bought her that special present and everything. I trust you've been looking after it, Malthus?'

'Yes, your majesty, I've just given it some fresh nuts.' Malthus turned and scurried down the huge curve of the marble staircase. Septimus followed, ignoring the rows of uniformed men who lined each side. He descended to the huge marble-floored forum, where the messenger waited patiently on one knee, surrounded by the various lords and ladies of the royal court, all of whom were studying the king as he descended the stairs.

That was the problem with this place. Hardly anything ever happened in private; and Septimus knew that ever since the death of his brother and his wife, there were many who had their suspicions about his involvement in that little misadventure. Not that any of them had proof, of course. All the co-conspirators who had helped bring the former king's reign to an early end had been silenced for ever.

Septimus frowned. It was hard work being evil but the rewards were high. He enjoyed being King immensely and had no intention of allowing that situation to change, not while there was still breath in his body. He reached the bottom of the staircase and looked down at the soldier who had been entrusted with the bad news, a big, handsome lout of a man whose name Septimus didn't know, but who looked none too bright.

'Speak up, man,' said Septimus. 'What news have you?'

'Your majesty, I come from Captain Tench with an important message.'

'Yes, I know that. Get on with it.'

'He urged me to come straight to you and to speak to no other.'

'Yes, well, very good, you have done exactly that.'

'No, sire, I have failed in that matter.' The soldier looked rather crestfallen. 'On my way in through the gates, a merchant asked me what time of day it was and, without thinking, I replied.'

Septimus glared at the man. 'Yes, well, that hardly matters, you idiot! What exactly is the
news?'

'Oh yes.' The soldier cleared his throat. 'Your majesty, just a short distance outside the camp, I . . . that is, we . . . that is, the troop commanded by Captain Tench, of which I am a member—'

'Oh, for pity's sake! Could you please get to the point?'

'Of course, your majesty. I was attempting to do so.' He cleared his throat again. 'Just a short distance outside the palace, we came upon the scene of a massacre . . .'

Yes!
Septimus had to restrain himself from punching a celebratory fist into the air, but managed to keep his expression grim.

'A massacre, you say. Oh no, please tell me that my beloved niece was not present.'

'She
was
there, your majesty. I saw her with my own eyes.'

'Oh, woe!' cried Septimus. He slapped a hand against his forehead and rolled his eyes heavenwards. 'Oh, that such a young and fragile beauty should have been snuffed out so prematurely!'

'Er . . . your majesty, she was—'

'No, don't tell me! Spare me the awful details of her untimely demise.'

'It was more the demise of the lupers, your majesty'

'The lupers?' Septimus glared at the man. 'What lupers?'

'The ones that attacked the caravan.'

'Lupers attacked the caravan? But . . . what of the Brigands?'

'Brigands, your majesty?'

'Yes. Didn't you say that she had been attacked by—?' Septimus checked himself with a jolt of alarm. No, nobody had actually mentioned Brigands. Bad move. He was aware of the eyes of the courtiers burning into him. 'Oh,
lupers
! You know, I could have sworn you said Brigands. They, er . . . they have a similar sound, do they not?'

The soldier was staring up at him blankly. He clearly didn't think so. But Septimus pressed on regardless.

'Now then, let me get this straight. You're telling me that Princess Kerin . . . my poor beloved niece . . . has been killed by lupers?'

'No, your majesty.'

Septimus winced. He glared down at the man. 'Then what the blue blazes
are
you telling me, you imbecile?'

The soldier flinched. 'Your majesty, I am telling you that Princess Kerin was
attacked
by a pack of lupers—'

'Yes, yes, so she was ripped to shreds! That's terrible, terrible!'

'My lord, she wasn't harmed. She has survived and is alive and well.'

'Oh, the tragedy, the . . . the . . .' Septimus's face went through a whole series of contortions as he tried to find an appropriate expression for the news. He initially went for the look of sadness that he had been practising upstairs. Then, realizing it was totally wrong, he tried for one of relieved delight, baring his teeth and popping his eyes; but judging by the way the soldier flinched away from him, what he had actually managed was an expression of total insanity.

'Alive?' he screamed. 'Alive! I . . . I can hardly believe it!' He looked around at the courtiers, aware now that his eyes were filling with tears of frustration. 'Look at me!' he cried. 'I'm so pleased I'm actually weeping tears of joy!'

He returned his attention to the messenger. 'So how did the . . . how did my beloved niece come to survive?'

'She was rescued, your majesty. By two travellers. The self same men who rescued her from the Brigands you spoke of.'

Septimus felt like kicking the man in the teeth, but this really wasn't the time or place. 'I spoke of no Brigands. That was you!'

'Er . . . no, your majesty. I spoke of lupers; you—'

'So where is my niece now?' bellowed Septimus, drowning out the irritating whine of the man's voice.

'She approaches the palace, your majesty, under armed escort. And, of course, bringing her saviours with her.'

'Oh, then I . . . I must make ready to . . .' He clenched his fists and made an effort to control himself. 'To receive them,' he hissed. He walked past the messenger, taking the opportunity as he did so to 'accidentally' stand on the fingers of the man's hand, feeling a satisfying crunching sensation under his foot. He addressed the court. 'Make ready for a celebration!' he announced. 'My niece, your future queen, is shortly to be returned to us, safe and well, on this most special of days . . . her birthday. We will meet them in the courtyard with all due pomp and ceremony. Now I must away to my chambers to, er . . . umm . . . dress for the occasion!'

He strode back, stepping on the messenger's other hand as he passed. He swept up the marble staircase and was aware of Malthus trailing along in his wake. He turned and glared at the man. 'What do you want?' he snapped.

'Umm . . . I come to attend your royal highness,' said Malthus. 'To prepare you for—'

'I'm a big boy now, Malthus. I'll see to myself.' He started away, but then paused as a thought occurred to him. 'The soldier who just brought the message . . ,'

'Yes, sire?'

'I think he should be rewarded for bearing such good tidings, don't you? See that he's promoted to the rank of Captain. With immediate effect.'

'Very well, sire.'

'And send him to join our expeditionary forces in the swamps of Dysenterium.'

'Er . . . but, your majesty, that's hardly . . .'

'Hmm?'

Malthus swallowed hard. He knew well enough that King Septimus was not a person who tolerated having his decisions questioned.

'That's actually very convenient,' said Malthus brightly. 'I understand that the last captain just died of some festering infection in his guts.' He turned away and went back down the stairs to break the good news to the messenger, who was kneeling below, whimpering in pain as he inspected the crushed and broken fingers of his hands.

Septimus meanwhile had a pressing engagement. He reached the top landing, and instead of turning right for his chambers, he headed left into a rarely used part of the palace. He strode along a dimly lit corridor looking for Magda.

He found her in her chamber, leaning over a table, pouring some foul mixture into a receptacle made from an upturned human skull. She was intent on her work and Septimus was in no mood for niceties, so by way of greeting he launched a kick at her skinny backside, sending her tumbling across the table and scattering her latest experiment all over the floor.

She turned like a beast at bay, an expression of anger on her wizened old face, her one good eye glittering with malice as she bared the few brown stumps of teeth left in her mouth. She lifted a gnarled, liver-spotted hand to make a hex sign at her assailant. Then she recognized who had just kicked her and all the malice went out of her in an instant. She attempted an unconvincing smile. 'Your majesty,' she croaked. 'This is an . . . unexpected pleasure.'

'The pleasure is all yours,' he assured her, leaning across the table and fixing her with a look of profound anger. 'You stupid malodorous old hag! I've just spoken with a messenger. Princess Kerin lives!'

'Ah.' Magda could not conceal a look of dismay. 'He is sure?'

'Positive. It seems she survived the attack by Brigands and a later one by a pack of lupers, all thanks to the intervention of two travellers.'