The Madness of Kings

by Gene Doucette

  “Lord Aginot awaits,” he said, “per your request.”

  “Very good. Has Logina brought news yet?”

  “Princess Battine and Mr. Magly’s whereabouts remain unknown. If, as you say, they are the chief culprits, the captain and I agree that they have likely managed to flee the castle since.”

  “You doubt me?”

  “No, my queen,” he snapped.

  “Fandaine…” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m not going to have you drawn and quartered or anything like that. I’m plying you for your counsel. Unbutton your collar and speak to me as you would if I belonged on this throne.”

  He nodded slowly, and relaxed visibly.

  “Yes, your majesty. It would help if I knew the nature of your suspicions. Then I might provide better counsel.”

  She reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the note, handing it over.

  “I found this under Kenson’s bed,” she said. “It’s signed Damid, which I believe is Mr. Magly’s given name.”

  Fandaine fumbled around until he found a pair of eyeglasses. About a third of the senior Alcons ended up needing reading glasses by the time they turned forty. The pair he was using were antiques, as it was also the case that the third of Alcons requiring corrective lenses tended to require the same corrective lenses.

  “It doesn’t say where,” Fandaine said.

  “It does not. But we know where; it was where Kenson was killed. It was also where I caught Kenson and Battine a few hours prior.”

  “Caught? Pardon, my queen, but the implication…”

  “I’m fully cognizant of the implication, Fandaine, just as you are fully cognizant of their prior relationship. That part of the library is where they used to meet. Further, I highly doubt Mr. Magly’s capacity to find his way there unguided; I believe she was with him.”

  “They were seen together, yes. Yes, I understand now. And, Logina can’t find them, which only magnifies the perception of guilt. But as I said, they’ve surely left. Lady Delphina’s horse is still in the stable, but there are plenty of other steeds, and other methods of egress.”

  “They’re still in the castle,” Porra said. “I know this.”

  “How do you know, Porra?”

  She considered whether to trust Fandaine a little more. It was possible he already knew about Kenson’s penchant for forbidden devices.

  It’s too much of a risk, she thought.

  “I…simply do,” she said. “I can’t explain right now, but it’s true. Be sure the search continues. They’ll turn up. Now: Please send in Lord Aginot.”

  “Of course.”

  The vast doors at the far end of the throne room opened and Fergo Horace, Lord Aginot, stepped in. He walked the distance from the doors to the throne slowly, with the general carriage and confident demeanor that marked all Horaces.

  Smug little asses, Porra thought. Every one of them.

  He bowed deeply, either to the throne or to its temporary occupant; it hardly mattered. What did matter—to him—was the degree of flourish involved.

  “Queen Porra,” he began, “I can hardly express the depths of my sorrow. Please know that I speak for all of Extum. Anything I can do to help you in this time of need, I will of course commit to immediately.”

  “Thank you, Fergo,” she said. “Please get up off your knee, and know that there is indeed something you can do.”

  “Anything.”

  “You can explain how it is that you’ve brought about the assassination of my husband.”

  Fergo’s expression went from royally saddened to immodestly frightened. His eyes flicked around the room, perhaps to determine if a contingent of the guard was about to set upon him.

  “I’m afraid you have me off-kilter, my queen.”

  “The outsider,” she said. “Mr. Magly. We have cause to believe him the assassin, and he entered our roof under your imprimatur.”

  He looked visibly relieved.

  “Ah, Damid…But you’re serious. The man can’t even ride a horse, and he brought no weapon that I know of on this journey. I’ve had both him and his bags checked.”

  Porra recalled Magly’s direct, and wondered if Fergo was aware his charge had a voicer. Either he did know and didn’t care, or he didn’t know and searched the outsider poorly. Or, he was lying about having searched him at all.

  “Kenson was killed by a thrust to the heart with a sword,” she said. “Little skill would have been needed beyond knowing which end was sharp. All your Mr. Magly required was to get close enough to commit to the act. We do believe, however, that he had at least one co-conspirator. We are wondering if we’re looking at a second co-conspirator.”

  “Queen…” He stopped himself, and sighed. “Porra, it’s me. It’s Fergo. We’ve known one another since we were barely taller than the armrest on that throne. And Kenson? I’ve known him for just as long. I had nothing to do with this, of course. I loved him dearly.”

  “You would not be the first to offer this line of reasoning in defense,” she said. “If we marched every single person in the castle past the throne, I don’t doubt that I would hear it again. Everyone loved Kenson, and nobody would think of killing him, and yet he’s murdered. So where do you propose I draw the line?”

  He nodded slowly. The fear was no longer in his eyes, possibly because Porra felt as if she was about to start crying again, and that might have been obvious. It was hard to take her seriously as a ruthless hand of vengeance when she couldn’t even keep herself composed for a five minute conversation.

  “Battine,” he said. “She’s on the other side of your line.”

  “If I can’t trust my own blood…no, more than that. Kenson’s own…You know what they were to one another as well as I do, and yet…”

  “If you can’t believe her, what hope do I have to convince you of my lack of involvement?” Fergo said. “I understand.”

  He sat down at the edge of the dais, awkwardly, as he was wearing a sword.

  “But,” he said, “Battine…You know I love her as well, no less than you and Kenson. But she is an unblessed. As terrible as this is to even think, this is in her nature, is it not? That’s what we were always taught. She’s reckless, and impulsive, and…”

  “…and the Outcast apparent,” Porra said, finishing his thought.

  Her eyes drifted back to the painting on the wall. The darkness representing the source of all evil seemed to be winking at her.

  “I know none of us took that too seriously, but, perhaps we should judge her by her actions and not by who we hope her to be.”

  Porra thought she might break down completely then, although she was at a loss as to why. Fergo’s words were no different than the ones that had been going through her head since discovering Kenson’s body; before then, really. It was something she’d been saying about Battine for years, only not aloud. Having the same notion on the lips of another person just filled her with unbearable sadness.

  “Tell me what you know about Mr. Magly,” she said, lunging for a subject change.

  “Not much, I confess,” he said. “I know that it’s Professor Magly, and that he’s tenured at Callim University. He claimed his interest in the nine kingdoms was purely academic, and until now I had no cause to doubt him.”

  “Are you aware of a prior relationship between him and Kenson?”

  “None that he mentioned. Why?”

  Porra held out the note. Fergo stood, and reached up to take it from her. Irrationally, she was reminded that he had a sword and they were alone; if he was truly bent on regicide, this would have been his best opportunity.

  But no, she reminded herself, you no longer hold a proper throne now, do you? What good would that do him?

  “How interesting,” he said, on reading the note. He handed it back. “Perhaps they did know one another.”

  “Are you familiar with his hand?” she asked.

  “That could be it, but I’m not sufficiently familiar to say for certain. There could be a samp
le in Kenson’s papers, though; I’m told Damid wrote to Kenson from Extum requesting a formal invitation into his kingdom. If that request still exists, you can compare. If you think it necessary.”

  Porra wasn’t willing to share any of the details she obtained directly from Professor Magly, but thought that if such a request truly existed, it would likely have been sent as a voicer message, which wouldn’t help her. Then it occurred to her that the same might be true of an insistence on a late-night meeting in the library. This would challenge the authenticity of the note in her hand, certainly.

  “If you’d like, I can go through Damid’s papers,” Fergo said. “His room adjoins mine; I’m sure I can find an exemplar.”

  “An interesting suggestion,” she said. “But no. I’ll have the guard search his belongings. And yours as well.”

  He looked surprised, and for good reason. As an ambassador from another kingdom, technically everything he brought with him, from his bags to his horse to a one mader circle of space around his person, belonged to the kingdom of Extum. Violating that space without permission was not allowed.

  “But Porra…”

  “I’m only going to be queen for another day or two, Lord Aginot. You can claim sovereignty over your things all you want, but I’m willing to risk an international incident while on my way out the door. Or would you rather I considered you a prisoner of war?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Let’s not head in that direction. I’ll consent to a search, but only if I’m there for it.”

  She nodded.

  “Fandaine?” she called.

  The Chief Minister stepped back into the room from behind the throne.

  “My queen,” he said.

  “Please arrange for the guard to escort Lord Aginot to his quarters. They’re to search his belongings and those of Damid Magly.”

  “Of course. What shall I tell the guard to look for?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Anything that can help.”

  Fandaine rang a bell, and two guards entered.

  “My queen,” Fergo said, “I hope we can speak again soon.”

  “That very much depends on what they find, Lord Aginot,” she said.

  All four of them left, and she was alone with her thoughts once more.

  The throne was uncomfortable. Kenson used to complain about it all the time; for longer events in which he wouldn’t be expected to rise and sit very often, he’d bring a pillow.

  Something was digging into her side. She felt around until she discerned the culprit: it was Kenson’s voicer. She’d forgotten she had slipped it into a fold in her dress before heading to the throne room. A part of her thought that maybe Battine and Magly would use it again to talk to her. Another part just wanted it close, for unknown reasons.

  Fandaine re-entered.

  “Whom shall I call next, my queen?” he asked.

  “Nobody,” she said. “I think I’d like to see my husband.”

  Chapter Ten

  Orean appeared to be some kind of witch.

  It was essentially impossible to get from the laundry room in the back of the western wing to the royal guest quarters on the second floor of the eastern wing entirely by way of the servant passages. Certainly, there were stretches in which they came in handy, just not as a way to proceed. They were great for evading, but about half the time—having evaded—the three of them had to double back and pick up where they left off, or advance in the wrong direction.

  The problem was that the passageways weren’t intended for use in the manner in which Battine meant to use them. The one they took to escape her quarters worked only because they accidentally headed in the only useful direction; had they gone the other way, they’d have found themselves at a dead end.

  It might have been possible to take a servant passage to the last room on a given corridor, then go through that room to get to the main portion of the castle, except that many of these rooms were occupied, and by order of the queen everyone had been told to remain where they were until Batt and Damid had been located.

  All this meant was that the three of them had to walk down the regular castle hallways an awful lot, directly past the people charged with looking for them.

  And yet—and here is where Battine thought Orean may have cast a spell or something—they went entirely unnoticed. Orean walked the halls as if they belonged to her, somehow managing to follow her own advice about making no eye contact and keeping her chin down while simultaneously commanding the space around her with her presence. If she’d been born an Alcon, this kind of charisma would have made her the envy of the nine kingdoms.

  Battine trailed Orean, pushing a washbasin slowly and without enthusiasm. Damid brought up the rear, carrying a mop and a sack of scrub brushes and soap. Since the basin was empty, there was no reason for these things to not go into it, but then Damid would have no excuse to be there. Nobody—no guards or royals or other maids—stopped them to correct this obvious inefficiency.

  They made it all the way to the second floor center pavilion before encountering any resistance. By then, the light from the midday suns was streaming in through the glass windows on one side of the pavilion, so there were no shadows to hide in. This was unfortunate, as one of the entrances to the main wing was on the other end of that pavilion. Consequently, the place was infested with the palace guard. And they had to get through; there was no other way to get where they wanted to be without passing through this point.

  That probably should have been what was on Batt’s mind when she saw all the guards. What was on her mind instead was that they were thirty paces from the entrance to the library. Batt felt a lump in her throat, thinking about Kenson’s final moments, and then she worried that she might cry.

  This would be a bad time to cry.

  She pinched the webby part of her hand between the thumb and the forefinger hard enough to draw blood. It was the same trick she used to pull when she was a child facing a slightly less perilous circumstance at the time but also not wanting to cry. The pain choked off any potential sobbing. Now her hand hurt, but it was a good trade.

  They’d made it part of the way when a guard Batt didn’t recognize planted himself between Orean and the entrance to the east wing. He was about twice Orean’s size, and portly, so much so he barely fit in the light armor of the guard. Battine imagined that in a combat situation it would be enough to charge his center of gravity and knock him onto his back. He didn’t look capable of getting back up again.

  “We’re battened down, little one,” he grumbled. “No cleaning to be done.”

  “What’s this?” Orean said, looking up from her shoes. “Oh, it’s you Vikit. Get outta the way, you big stack of fat.”

  “I’m saying, there’s no cleaning to be done. Everyone’s still a-bed, and they’re gonna stay that way until the Alconnot turns up. Ain’t you heard?”

  “Oh but this is great news! We’re on the short straw here. I’ll let the matron know Lord Yaubimay’ll have to sit in his filth on your say-so.”

  “Lord Yaubimay?”

  “You hear that, Livvy?” she said over her shoulder, to Battine. “We’re off the gig. That’s great. Let someone else deal with it for a change, right?”

  “Right,” Batt said.

  “Come on, let’s head back. Thanks for the save, Vikit.”

  Orean turned around, and the three of them started back the way they came.

  “Wait for it,” Orean muttered over Battine’s shoulder.

  “Hold up,” Vikit said.

  “Yeah, what?” Orean asked.

  “What’s the trouble with Lord Yaubimay?”

  “What isn’t the trouble, is what I heard. Too much feast and not enough Nita. Happens every year. His girl said the whole room. Piss and shit and sick all over, is what I was told. Why do you think matron sent three of us? But you’re right, I’m sure it can wait.”

  “All right, go on,” he said, stepping aside.

  “What? Naw, come on, Vikit, it
’s practically the end of my day as it is. We go all the way back, she’ll have to send another team. Do me the courtesy.”

  “Orean Gustys, you get down there and take care of Lord Yaubimay,” Vikit said. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Orean sighed grandly.

  “Fine, fine. Come on, you two. You’re a bastard, Poid Vikit; don’t think I’ll forget this.”

  They slunk past Vikit, who somehow managed to look closely at both of them without seeing them, and again Battine had to wonder if Orean was some kind of witch.

  The east wing was slightly more majestic than the west. The rooms along the eastern wall got the morning suns in all their glory, while the west had to make do with the sunset. It was also quite lovely too, but didn’t get the same measure of love in part because the potential witnesses weren’t usually in the room at sunset.

  They weren’t going to one of the nicest rooms, which was for the best, as that was a much longer walk. The corridor off the main part of the castle headed straight for fifty paces before hitting a T-junction, with rooms lining both sides of the far wall (which was the one that faced east). Lord Yaubimay, if they actually were intending to visit his chambers, was probably in one of those rooms. Yaubimay was a very old, very overweight Alcon who only turned up for Septal ceremonies that mandated food; he was notable only for being the oldest and fattest royal in Totus. However, he was an Alcon, which meant he got a nice room.

  Guests, be they blessed royalty or not, got one of the rooms about twenty paces down, before the T-junction, along the south wall. It afforded a nice view of the promenade and it was closer to the throne room, which made business easier to manage especially when the visiting dignitary was of an age.

  When they reached the room Lord Aginot was put up in, Orean gave a little nod to the door and then walked another ten paces, before coming to a stop at an unremarkable sconce.

  “In here,” she said, sticking her finger in a hole that up until she did it looked like a flaw in the wallpaper. She pulled open the door, and Battine and Damid went through.

  It led to yet another unlit passageway.