The storm, spreading its anvil high into the atmosphere, flew on reckless wings in from the sea. Nimrood watched, his thin old body shaking in a paroxysm of demented glee; his sinister features lifted upward toward the storm, illuminated by the raking streaks of lightning. The wizard chanted, danced, and laughed, thrilling to the storm as it passed overhead.
At last the heavy drops of rain began plummeting to earth. Loath to leave, but hating this wetness more, Nimrood the Necromancer turned and darted back into his chamber.
“Euric?” he shouted, throwing off his black cape. “Light the incense. I feel like following the storm.” His henchman scuttled ahead of him as he descended the spiraling stone stairs to a vaulted room below. The room was bare stone except for a five-sided stone altar standing in the center.
Euric, with torch in hand, flitted around the altar, lighting the pots of incense that stood on low metal tripods, one at each corner of the altar. “Leave me!” shouted Nimrood when he had finished.
Nimrood stretched himself upon the altar and folded his hands over his breast. He let his breathing slow and become more shallow as the incense swirled around him. Soon he dropped into a deep trance, and the sorcerer’s breathing seemed to stop altogether.
As Nimrood sank into the trance, his mind rose up as if through layers of colored smoke, ascending on the pungent vapors of incense. When the smoke cleared, he was flying above the earth in the face of the onrushing storm.
The wizard closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he had taken the form of a kestrel, soaring in the turbulent air. His body tingled with excitement as he played among the rolling clouds, diving steeply and rising again in the blink of an eye.
As he wheeled ecstatically through the rushing wind, he watched the land slide away beneath him. Directly below he saw his castle, dark upon its crown of mountain. To the west, falling sharply away to the bay, the thickly wooded hills hunched like the backs of tormented beasts. Beyond them, the glimmering crescent of the bay itself.
In a sudden blinding burst of lighting, his sharp kestrel’s eyes spied something in the bay. I wonder what that might be? he thought to himself. I will fly closer for a better look.
Nimrood dived into the wind, streaking to earth like a comet and heading for the bay.
“A ship!” he squawked when another stroke of lightning revealed the vessel’s outline. Then he sailed out over the bay. “Could it be Pyggin’s ship? I did not expect them so soon.”
Then, hovering in the air above the bay, the wind whipping through his feathers, Nimrood saw far below a small boat break away from the side of the ship. “Ach!” he screeched. “My guests have arrived!”
With that, he flew back to the castle on the speed of the racing wind and swept into the vaulted chamber through an arrow loop in the wall. He alighted on the edge of the altar and became a wisp of gray smoke lingering in the air before dissolving above his own entranced form beneath.
As soon as the smoke vanished, the wizard’s eyes snapped open and he sat upright with a jolt. “Euric!” he shouted. “Come here at once!
“Where is that fool servant?” he muttered, swinging down from the altar. “Euric!” he shouted again; then he heard his servant’s quick steps in the corridor beyond as Euric came running to his master’s call. Nimrood met him at the door.
“You called, wise one?” The pitiful Euric bowed and scrabbled before the sorcerer.
“Yes, toad. We have work to do. Our long-awaited guests are even now arriving. We must prepare to meet them. Call the guards. Assemble them before my throne; I will give them their instructions. Hurry now! No time to lose!”
It was the third inn they had tried that morning, and this one sat down on the wharf at the water’s edge. Toli and Quentin stood looking at the squeaking, weather-beaten shingle that swung to and fro on the brisk wind. It read FLYING FISH in bold blue letters hand-painted with some care by the owner, whose name, Baskin, was also painted beneath the legend.
“This is the last public house in Bestou, I think,” remarked Quentin. “This must be where they stayed. Come on.” He jerked his head for Toli to follow him inside. Toli, stricken with the jittery bafflement that most Jher held for all cities of any size, followed woodenly as he gazed along the waterfront.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Baskin?” Quentin inquired politely of the first man they encountered within.
The man looked up at him over a stack of coins he was counting, his eyes blinking in the light of the open door. “My good fellow!” he shouted, somewhat surprised.
“Are you Baskin, sir?” asked Quentin again, startled by the man’s unusual manner.
“At your service. Indeed, yes! If it is Baskin you want, Baskin you have found. What can I do for you”—he cast a sharp and not altogether approving glance toward Toli—“for you two young sirs?”
“We are looking for a party traveling through here—through Bestou some time ago.”
The man scratched his head with a quizzical look on his face. “That could describe a fair number, I’ll warrant.”
“There were four of them altogether . . .”
“That helps, but not much. Many merchants travel in numbers.”
“One was a lady. Very beautiful.”
“That’s better . . . but no, I cannot think of anyone like that. Who did they sail with?”
“I . . . I do not know, sir.”
“They stayed here, you say?”
“They may have . . . That is, I cannot say for certain that they did. This is the last place in Bestou they could have stayed . . . if they did.”
“Let me see,” said Baskin, pulling his chin. “You are looking for a party who came you don’t know when, and stayed you don’t know where, and sailed with you don’t know who. Is that right?”
Quentin’s face flushed scarlet. His gaze fell to his feet.
“Oh, don’t mind me, lad. I only wanted to get the facts . . .”
“I am sorry to have troubled you,” said Quentin, turning to leave.
“Are you sure there is nothing else you can think of ?” Baskin inquired after them.
Quentin stopped and considered this for a moment, then said, “They were bound for Karsh.”
At that word the innkeeper jumped down from his stool and came around the table to where Quentin and Toli stood. “Shh! Do not say that name in here. Bad luck! But, hmm . . .” He rubbed a long hand over his high forehead. “I seem to remember them now. Yes.
“There were three and the lady. One tall, fidgety. Looked to be a man of quick temper. The other big, stout. Dressed like a priest somewhat, though no priest I ever saw. They had a servant of sorts with them. A sturdy man. Didn’t see much of him. And the lady—beautiful she may have been, though you couldn’t prove it by me. She wore men’s clothing all the while. Disguised, perhaps?”
“Yes, that’s them!” cried Quentin.
“So I gather. They wanted to go to . . . that place. Had difficulty— and who would not—finding any honest captain to take them.”
“Did they find someone?”
“Yes, I think so. They must have. They left early the first sailing day. Paid the bill the night before and were gone, along with everyone else, at dawn.”
“What day was it?” Quentin was almost breathless with relief at having found word of his friends.
“Oh, it must be ten, perhaps twelve days ago now. Yes, at least that long. Perhaps longer—let me see . . .” The innkeeper turned and went back to his table. A hutch stood nearby, and he fished in one of the cubbyholes for a parchment, which he at length brought out. “Yes. Here it is. I remember now. They left their horses with the smith up the way. I have the record now.” He pushed the paper under Quentin’s nose.
“Did they say whose ship would carry them to—”
“No, I never did hear. But there would be those who would risk such a trip for enough gold, I would think. Though many would not, as I say.”
Baskin looked confidentially at Quentin and asked, “You a
re not thinking of following them, are you?” He read the answer in Quentin’s eyes before Quentin could speak. “Forget it. No good can come from it. I will tell you what I told them: stay far away from that place. I told them, and I tell you. Go back to where you came from. Don’t go anywhere near that evil land. Stay away!”
32
Prince Jaspin swept through the ample corridors of Castle Erlott on his way to the great hall where the Council of Regents sat deadlocked for the third day. He was followed by two of his own bodyguards carrying halberds with royal pennons fluttering from the halberds’ long staves. Jaspin had chosen this moment to remind the recalcitrant regents of his power and prestige.
Behind him also marched Ontescue, carrying a small ornamented casket. Next to Ontescue walked a man in the worn clothes of a soldier, hesitant of step, eyes darting everywhere as if seeking refuge for an uneasy conscience.
This parade arrived at the towering doors of the great hall, now locked and the way barred by three guards, one of whom was the marshal of the Council of Regents.
“Halt!” bellowed the marshal. “The council is in session.”
“The council is deadlocked,” said Prince Jaspin in his most unctuous manner. “I have with me the means they require to resolve their impasse. Let me through!”
The marshal puffed out his cheeks as if to protest when a knock on the door sounded from within. “Stand away,” he warned the prince and turned to open the door to the summons.
“Marshal, the council will recognize the prince,” said Sir Bran as the door swung open slightly. He added under his breath to the prince, “I am sorry. I have only just received your signal, or I would have given this featherbrain orders to admit you on sight.”
“Hmph!” the prince snorted. “Are you ready?” Sir Bran nodded as they moved inside the door. “Are the others?”
“They know their part. You will hear them sing when the time comes. Worry not.”
Ontescue followed them through the doors, motioning for the man in soldier’s clothes to remain without. The huge door closed with a resounding crash, and all heads turned to see who had entered to disturb their deliberations.
“I protest!” shouted a voice above the murmur that accompanied the discovery that the prince had invaded the privacy of the council. “I protest the presence of the prince at this meeting.” The strident voice belonged to Lord Holben, who was on his feet, waving an accusing finger in Jaspin’s direction.
“I come as a friend of this body and as one offering evidence which the council requires.”
Lord Holben clenched his fists at his sides and bent his head stiffly to confer with one of his friends. “This council will provide its own evidence,” retorted Holben. There were nods all around the table.
“Of course.” The prince smiled sweetly. “But the council may examine any evidence brought before it from any source—if it so chooses.” More nods of agreement.
“How is it that you know this council desires any such evidence?” asked Lord Holben. His voice was tense, barely under control. “It seems you have long ears, my prince, but methinks they belong to a jackass!”
“That is unseemly, sir!” cried Drake. He made as if to dash across the room to where Holben stood shaking with rage.
“Good sirs, desist!” shouted Lord Naylor, leader of the council. “The council has the right to decide if it will admit Prince Jaspin’s evidence or not.” He turned to address the whole of the council. “What say you, my lords?”
Starting with the chair on Lord Naylor’s right hand, each regent spoke his pleasure—yea or nay, for or against admitting an examination of the prince’s evidence. Curiosity enticed the greater number of the assemblage, and the prince was invited to admit his proof.
“I bow to your discretion,” said the prince, bending low. He smiled, but his eyes were stone as they cast upon Lord Holben and his dissenters.
“It has reached me that this council stands deadlocked for want of proof of the king’s death. And though it grieves me—you know not how much—to render this sad account, I would be remiss if, having the power to end this dissent, I stood by and did nothing.”
Again murmurs of approval were voiced around the table. Jaspin picked out his paid followers, eyeing each one individually.
“I have bare hours ago received this final proof of the king’s death. And though it deals a grievous wound to us all, who have hoped against hope that we would one day see his return, it nevertheless confirms the reason for this meeting.” He raised his sad eyes around the room. “It does confirm our darkest suspicions.”
Prince Jaspin raised a finger and motioned Ontescue to approach with the jeweled chest. Jaspin took the chest and placed it before Lord Naylor. He handed him the key, saying, “I believe you will find the end of your questions within.”
Lord Naylor took the key and without a word placed it in the lock and turned it. In all the hall only the sound of the lock clicking open could be heard. Naylor withdrew the key and carefully raised the lid. What he saw inside drove the color from his face. He closed the lid and looked away, sinking back in his chair, eyes closed.
The small gilt casket made its way around the table, pausing before each regent in turn. Prince Jaspin watched the effect of the casket’s contents upon each member. Some stared down in disbelief, others in grave sadness, like Naylor, and still others expressed nothing more than a dread curiosity.
All except Holben seemed to accept the evidence as proof enough of the king’s untimely death.
“Do you think, Prince Jaspin,” he began quietly, “that this scant remnant will suffice our inquiry?” He drew breath. “It is a travesty!” he shouted, flinging the casket from him. The contents, a severed finger, once bloody and mutilated, now withered and rotting, bearing a great golden ring, rolled out upon the table. The ring was King Eskevar’s personal signet.
“I have seen that ring on His Majesty’s hand. With my own eyes, I have seen it!” someone shouted.
“I, too, have seen it. I swear it is genuine!” cried another.
Others joined in the chorus, but Holben stood his ground. “The ring may be genuine, my lords. Indeed, it may even be the king’s finger which wears the ring. But it proves nothing. Nothing!”
“He is right,” said a noble sitting to Holben’s right. “A king’s ring and a king’s finger do not add up to a king’s death. Certainly, a king may be separated from one or the other, or both, and that separation would not prove fatal.”
Doubt traveled fleetingly across several faces.
“A king does not suffer his ring—the symbol of his sovereignty— to be taken except on pain of death. King Eskevar would fight to the last breath rather than give up that ring. That is enough for me.” The speaker, Sir Grenett, sat down triumphantly, as if he had carried the day.
But Lord Holben was adamant. “King Eskevar, I will warrant, would face death a thousand times rather than relinquish that ring. But King Eskevar may have had nothing to do with it.” He turned to fix Prince Jaspin with a fierce, defiant scowl.
Jaspin shook his head slowly and said, with seeming reluctance, “I had hoped to spare you the grisly details, but since Lord Holben would stain the illustrious memory of our great monarch with his morbid disrespect . . .” He turned and signaled to Ontescue to produce the witness.
Ontescue, standing ready at the door, gave a sharp knock, and the marshal opened the door and admitted the soldier.
“This man, this poor wretch you see before you, followed our king to foreign lands and fought steadfastly by his side. He was present at the end, when in the last battle Eskevar was killed and the ring cut from his hand by the enemy.” The soldier hung his head and did his best to appear dutifully grief-stricken.
“How did this ring come to be in your possession?” inquired Lord Naylor gently.
“If it please you, sir, the sight of the king sprawled dead upon the field so saddened our men that we were overcome with a righteous frenzy and slew the enemies who h
ad killed our king as they retreated in victory. And so we retrieved this ring.”
“You saw the king fall, did you?”
“Yes, my lord.” The soldier’s eyes shifted uneasily from face to face around the room.
“And how did the . . . ring. How did it come to be in your possession?”
“The wars being over, we were all returning. I was aboard the first ship to sail for home, but the last ship to leave before winter. I volunteered to bring it on ahead.”
“The armies will be returning shortly?”
“Yes, my lord. With the first ships of spring.”
Lord Naylor closed his eyes again as if in great weariness. “Thank you, good soldier.” He nodded, dismissing the man. The soldier backed away from the round table with a bow. Prince Jaspin waved him away with a furtive gesture.
“Where is your commander?” demanded Holben. “Why was this token not provided with an honor guard? Answer me!”
“The man came directly to me as soon as he could,” remarked Prince Jaspin, ignoring Lord Holben’s demands. His witness left the room.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Lord Naylor wearily. Then he raised his head and in a voice filled with emotion said, “My lords, I think we have seen and heard enough.” He raised a hand quickly to parry Lord Holben’s objection. “Enough to make up our minds. For myself, I choose to believe what I see, and what has been told among us. I can see no other course but to do what we came here to do.”
“We can wait,” suggested Holben readily. “Wait for the others to return. Members of the king’s bodyguard, for example. Those who buried him . . .”
“And how many will it take before you believe?” asked Sir Bran. “You would not believe your own eyes, nor would you anyone else’s.”
“This council has been charged with a duty that must not wait,” offered Sir Grenett. “The realm daily cries out for strong leadership.”
“That from you, Sir Grenett?” sneered Holben. “Since when did strong leadership become a concern of yours? You and the rest of your thieving rabble!”
In the Hall of the Dragon King Page 21
