The Madness of Kings

by Gene Doucette

  “One side,” Orean said, squeezing around them to get to the lead. “No need to light a torch, I know the way.”

  This was true of every passage they’d taken. It was becoming clear Tima’s use of a torch to get around was the exception and not the rule; the castle’s servants largely knew their way around in the dark. Battine found this oddly reassuring, because once she realized the extent of the passageways, the notion that the entire castle was one accident in one hidden crawlspace away from catching fire became impossible to shake.

  “That was good thinking,” Damid said, “with the guard.”

  “Nah,” Orean said. “You’ve just gotta know what kind you’re dealing with.”

  “What kind?”

  “There are only four kinds of guards: stupid, horny, scared, or the fourth kind. Vikit’s not dumb or lusty, but he’s a coward.”

  “What’s the fourth kind?” Battine asked.

  “The kind you hope you don’t run into when running a trick like this: Smart and brave, and unwilling to trade favors for a touch of your boob. They’re rare.”

  “You are a one person sociology thesis,” Damid said.

  “I dunno what you mean, but I’ll take it that’s good. Here’s our door.”

  A pinhole of light streamed in from the room. Orean got up on her tiptoes and peered through.

  “I don’t see anyone,” she said. “But I got no sight of the bath. Why don’t you two sit tight and I’ll review.”

  She was out the door before either of them could answer.

  “I’m thinking I made a mistake,” Damid said, “in imagining I could get a good idea of what life in the Middle Kingdoms was like by hanging out with the royalty. She’s much more interesting. What are you doing?”

  She’d brushed up against him twice in the dark.

  “Lifting up this skirt,” she said. “I’d like a sword in my hand before we enter.”

  “That will definitely make you stand out.”

  “I’m not here to clean his toilet.”

  There was a rap on the door, and then Orean opened it from the inside.

  “I checked both rooms; nobody’s in. Come on.”

  The visiting dignitaries’ guest room had more or less the same amenities as the room Battine had been put up in; it was just larger. The desk was larger, the bed was larger, and so was the tub. A full bar was in one corner, and the fireplace was more ornate and featured more chairs. Other than that, there wasn’t a lot to see.

  Damid walked straight through the room to the door at the far end, which was open.

  “My stuff is still here,” he said. He sounded excited.

  Battine ignored him. “I thought everyone was in lockdown,” she said to Orean.

  “You heard the same as me,” she said. “But his gear’s still in the room, so he ain’t left.”

  He’s with Porra, Battine decided. I wonder what he’s telling her?

  “Now what?” Damid asked.

  Batt crossed into the adjoining room. It was smaller than the main one, meant for traveling attendants to kings. She wondered if Damid knew that, or cared. He was busy unpacking one of his saddlebags.

  “We wait, I guess. I can’t well confront the man with no man before me to confront.”

  “And then what?” he asked.

  “Then, I don’t know. I get him to admit to his misdeed.”

  “And then? I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m being an ass, but this doesn’t sound terrifically thought out. I went along because I wanted to get to my bags and because surrendering seemed like a bad idea, but…you mean to kill him, I’m guessing?”

  He pointed to her sword.

  “I don’t anticipate him confessing without a little persuasion.”

  “But what good will that do you? Unless Porra is in the room to hear it herself; even then, will she believe it?”

  “You could capture it, on that forbidden device of yours.”

  He shook his head. “You said it yourself; I need to remember what century I’m stuck in. Even if I recorded it, I’d never get anyone to listen. Plus it would be a coerced confession. That’s not admissible where I come from. You may get the satisfaction of hearing Fergo admit he set us up. He may even say why he did it. But that won’t help us.”

  “It will help me.”

  He stopped what he was doing—not that she fully understood what that was—to look at her closely.

  “You don’t mean to get out of here alive, do you?” he asked.

  “If the last thing I do in this world is avenge Ken’s murder, I will happily take my final journey into the Depths.”

  “Yeah, great, but I won’t.”

  “Orean may be capable of getting you all the way to Callim University on her back,” she said.

  “If the coin is good, I might at that,” Orean said, from the other room.

  “I’d rather we both made it out of here,” he said.

  “That’s sweet. What are you doing?”

  He’d pulled six items from different parts of his bag, but none of them looked like anything familiar. There was: a tube; something that looked like a foundation compact only thicker; a loop with two prongs on each end; a handle with a rubber grip but nothing on the end of it; a filter or strainer of some kind; and a half-loop at the end of a stick. All of it looked like it was composed of metal, and none of it appeared to serve a function.

  “Family heirlooms,” he said. “My mother would be devastated if I lost any of this.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You not knowing what this is, is a good thing,” he said. He began shoving the odd objects into his pockets.

  “What’s it for?” she asked.

  “Hopefully, I won’t have to answer that question. And stop changing the subject. Fergo isn’t here. Do you mean to wait for him? Because he might not arrive alone.”

  “You mean his traveling guards? They’re barracked elsewhere.”

  “Them, or the palace guard, or…it doesn’t really matter who. Anyone in addition to him is a problem, especially if you mean to do what it sounds like you mean to do, which is to beat a confession out of him, kill him, and then—I’m guessing—try to escape. The last part I’m not sure of, because the longer we stand here talking about it the more it sounds like you were planning on this being a suicide mission, and now you’re just going to wait until the circumstances make that a reality.”

  He was wrong…sort of. She had not thought beyond this point. But she also expected Fergo to be in the room, and that events would just play out from there. Barreling ahead and working things out on the fly was her standard approach to a lot of things.

  “Hey,” Orean said, from the other room. “Anyone know what this is?”

  Battine reentered the main room, thankful for the distraction. Orean had taken Fergo’s saddlebags from the closet and opened up one of them. The contents were spread out on the desk.

  “What are you doing?” Batt asked.

  “Looking for platinum,” she said.

  “You mean, stealing from him.”

  “You plan to gut him, princess; don’t wave morality in my face. Besides, you lot travel with sacks of dorins all the time and don’t miss one or two coins when it’s heavy enough. You’ve got a bag with you right now. Any idea how much is in it?”

  “I guess I don’t. What did you find?”

  Orean held up a large golden brooch crafted in the shape of a fist surrounded by nine crystals.

  Damid poked his head into the room to have a look. “Some kind of medal,” he said. “An honorarium, perhaps. Did Fergo have some kind of special title?”

  Battine couldn’t breathe.

  “It’s called the King’s Justice,” she gasped. “Put it down.”

  “All right,” Orean said, placing it gently on the desktop. “I just wanted to know if it was valuable. Is it something he’ll miss?”

  “It’s priceless, and extremely rare. Yes he’ll miss it.”

  “Wait,” Damid said, �
�are you sure?”

  He picked up the brooch to get a better look.

  “Positive,” Battine said.

  “But the last time King’s Justice was invoked was…I don’t even know. Two centuries? Five centuries? I didn’t think it was still on the books.”

  “That’s an artifact of the holy wars,” Battine said. “It’s one of the only ones left. Last I knew it was in a case on the second floor of the Great Temple.”

  “You’re sure this is that same one?”

  “Is the pin on the back a little bent?”

  He checked. “It is.”

  “That’s the one. The brooch was yanked from the vest of the last man to wear it, on the occasion of his death.”

  “Fergo must have stolen it,” Damid said. “Or, borrowed it or something.”

  “I really wish that were true,” Battine said.

  “I hate being off the loop,” Orean said. “What are you two talking about? I don’t know anything about a holy war, but it’s just a pretty brooch. A cheap one, too, from the look of those crystals.”

  “This is a bad time for a history lesson,” Damid said. “But mark me down as appalled that you know so little about the history of your own kingdom.”

  “No need to get personal.”

  “The bearer of that brooch administers the King’s Justice,” Battine said, “in whatever way they see fit. It’s preemptive absolution, Orean. The judge is granted admission to the Haven regardless of the crimes they commit. In that sense, it’s priceless.”

  “The mister is holding it now,” Orean said. “Does that mean he can get away with anything he wants?”

  Orean looked excited by the prospect. Batt wondered if the girl was capable of taking the pin off Magly by force and decided she probably was.

  “It’s non-transferable,” Damid said. “Speaking of, there should be a scroll with it, shouldn’t there?”

  Orean dove into the bag and pulled out a small scroll. “Like this?”

  Battine took it from her, removed the string, and rolled it open. The paper was new and the ink on it was fresh, but the text itself was very old.

  “What’s it say?” Orean asked.

  “I don’t know; it’s in Eglinat,” Battine said. “Can you read Eglinat, Damid?”

  “Only a few words.”

  She unraveled it the rest of the way. It was narrow, but long. Fergo’s name turned up about two thirds of the way down. Then at the bottom…

  “By the Five,” Battine muttered. “You’re right, Damid; we have to go. Right now.”

  She shoved the scroll into his hands, took the brooch from him, and pocketed it.

  As a child, she learned all about the King’s Justice and the holy wars, and about how the former was a particularly odious byproduct of the latter. Anyone designated a judge could, in theory, murder whoever they liked and then declare that the act was explicitly sanctioned by their king, who happened to be the nearest thing to a god that existed in this world.

  This led to an alarmingly long series of royal assassinations in which each of the nine kingdom’s sovereigns declared that none of their counterparts were true incarnates; only they were.

  A scroll like the one in Damid’s hands was meant to serve two purposes: It identified the sanctioned party by name, and it bore the royal insignia of the king whose will the judge exercised.

  It was bad enough knowing that Fergo had the brooch. Assuming—as she was—that Lord Aginot was responsible for Kenson’s murder, he was doing so at the explicit behest of a king.

  Which king was the next question in need of an answer. Truly, if it was vengeance Battine sought, Fergo’s death wouldn’t be nearly enough; she needed the blood of the one who sent him.

  That got a lot more difficult as soon as she saw the end of the scroll.

  “There are eight insignias,” Damid said.

  “Eight insignias for eight kings,” Battine said.

  “That means…”

  “Shh!” Orean interrupted. She put a finger up to her mouth and put an ear up to the door to the hall.

  “At least six coming,” she said. She looked at Battine. “If you mean to stay and fight every one of ‘em, may the Five be close and all that, but I’m leaving. You sticking by her, mister?”

  Magly looked at Battine. “Well?” he asked.

  “But why would they do that?” she asked.

  “If you don’t come with us, you’ll never find out.”

  “Right. Give me the sword.”

  Sighing, Damid handed over the half-sword that slew Kenson.

  Battine took it to the bed and drove the blade through the middle of the mattress. It wasn’t half as satisfying as it would have been if cousin Fergo had been lying in the bed, but it would do.

  “All right,” she said. “Get us out of here, Orean.”

  “Sure thing,” Orean said. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. Beyond the castle walls.”

  “Dunno if I can do that, princess. Not now you’ve announced your continued presence in the castle.”

  “Maybe I can get us out,” Damid said. “Orean, can you lead us to the roof?”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was fifteen thirty by the time Porra had her chance to visit Kenson. The span in-between—she left the throne room at just past midday—had been taken up by an absurd flurry of activity.

  She was in control of very little of it.

  There was the matter of there not currently being a head of state in the kingdom of Totus. As much as Porra wanted Kenson’s murder resolved before Tannik took the crown, it wasn’t something about which she had a great deal of say. As Fandaine alluded to (every ten minutes it seemed), there were certain protocols to follow in this kind of situation; not following them in a timely manner led to a great deal of collective anxiety.

  Since Tannik was of an age to assume the crown—rather than a child requiring a regent until he came of age—the expectation was that he would assume the throne before the day was out. The concern behind not doing this quickly was somewhat preposterous, but: What if something that required a king came up before Totus had a king?

  It made a lot more sense in times of war. Likewise, the worry that something might happen to the king-in-waiting before he was consecrated. Killing a king was a guarantee of eternal assignment to the Depths. But killing an unconsecrated future king? That was a different matter.

  It was therefore determined that Tannik Alcon would become King Ho-Tannik just before the stroke of twenty.

  Then there was Kenson’s funeral to deal with. Someone—not Porra, but someone—decided the tents set up for the Feast of Nita would make for a fine funeral, so they remained standing. He would lay in state on the raised stage that had hosted the festival play the night he was murdered. People would be coming from all across the kingdom ushered through the gates, and allowed to visit the body.

  Naturally, this would provide her sister and Damid Magly a superb opportunity to slip away with the crowd, which was why Porra objected to the plan, or at least the timing of it.

  “We will catch them well before your concern is realized,” Fandaine said. Given they still remained on the loose hours after Porra set the guard on them, this came off as false bravado at best.

  They were still in the castle. They’d been making fools of Logina’s men the entire day.

  Their most brazen act was discovered in the room Lord Aginot had been put up in. They’d managed to get inside, riffle through Magly and Fergo’s bags, and leave a sword embedded in the bed as an autograph.

  Nobody seemed to have a ready explanation regarding how they made it into a room twenty paces from a dozen palace guards. (If Porra had her way, all six of the guards would have their heads on pikes on the castle walls before Tannik took his oath. This was probably an overreaction.) Likewise, nobody could explain how they got back out of that room or how they continued to evade capture.

  The obvious explanation was that there were people within
the castle walls who were actively helping the two fugitives. (Literally in the walls. The castle help used inter-wall passageways that were undoubtedly impossible to navigate without assistance.) But every time Porra pointed this out—to Fandaine, or anyone else in range—the told her in so many words that she’s being paranoid, and surely nobody in the castle would actively abet the king’s murder in that way. Meanwhile, they whispered things to one another when she was just out of earshot or nearly so.

  She picked up enough to understand that not everything was being shared with her.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing short of presenting her with her traitorous sister and the Inimatan outsider would be adequate; as long as they accomplished that she didn’t care what they felt like whispering.

  Kenson’s body lay at rest on a slab in the medical quarters in the dungeon.

  It wasn’t just a dungeon. There was a warren of rooms below Castle Totus that had historically served a wide range of functions.

  For instance, the rooms—which were naturally cold—had been used both to store the dead when there was no time to for a burial, and excess meat for the kitchens.

  It was macabre and only rarely acknowledged in the history lessons, but on two occasions—both long sieges—the dead were meat for the kitchen. Porra remembered finding, in a particularly underserved section of the library, an ancient text which described in far more detail than anyone asked for, what the flesh of an Alcon tasted like. (It tasted like veal. Commoners tasted more like lamb, supposedly, and Alconnots tasted like beef. Porra hated herself a little for remembering this.)

  In other times, it was used as a safe place to evacuate non-soldiers during battle, or to escape during a fire. It had also served as a decent place to store arms.

  Finally, most famously, it was an actual dungeon. Roughly half of the rooms down there had steel doors with ponderous locks on them, and several walls had metal loops mounted on them for chains. It had been well over two thousand years since prisoners had been kept in the dungeon of Castle Totus, despite which, everyone called it that.

  Porra had fond memories of the dungeon. She and Battine—and occasionally Kenson—explored it at length when they were children. There was a rumor about a tunnel leading from the dungeons to outside the castle walls, which not only made no sense—surely if one was going to design a secret egress, one wouldn’t put it in the same place one stored one’s prisoners—but had been thoroughly disproven by their adult relatives on many occasions. They did this by walking the kids around the dungeon and showing them the lack of a secret passageway. Of course, all this did was convince Battine that it existed, and so they went looking.