Sir Apropos of Nothing

by Peter David

  She faced her father, and he her. The several feet between them seemed like a chasm, and I knew that she still hadn’t made up her mind as to whether to forgive him and the queen for sending her off as they had.

  Then the king took one step toward her. Just one, and no further. She looked at him in puzzlement as he regarded her, one eyebrow cocked in a slightly amused fashion. And then she understood (before I did, certainly), and she likewise took a step toward him. Just one, and no further.

  Then he toward her once more again, and she toward him, and in this way they met each other halfway.

  “Gods,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him. “You’re the image of your mother. You’ve nothing of me in you at all. Count your blessings.”

  She smiled, and it was a very warm one, with nary a hint of insanity about it.

  He started to put his arms out to her, then paused. “Dare I?” he asked.

  “What?” She looked confused, but then he tapped his forearm, and obviously the gesture meant something to her because she chuckled lightly and said, “I think it would be safe, yes.” He embraced her then, and I felt a great deal of relief. She was so unpredictable, I’d been thinking that maybe she’d pull out a knife and commit regicide and patricide with one stroke. But no, she actually seemed pleased to see him.

  “I’ve missed you terribly,” he said.

  She took a step back. “You never came to visit,” she said evenly.

  “No.”

  “But you could have.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you?” There was enough of an edge in her voice that I was beginning to get wary again.

  “Because,” he said sadly, “had I done so, I suspect I never would have been able to leave without you. And your mother and I felt it best … well,” and he tilted his head slightly. “There you have it.”

  It was the most conversation I’d heard out of the king at one time, but Entipy didn’t seem satisfied by it. She seemed about to respond again, and suddenly feeling a touch of concern, I broke in. This was, of course, a horrible breach of protocol. One simply did not interrupt two royals in the middle of a conversation, but I’d been through enough that I was beyond caring about social niceties. “Your Highness,” I said. Naturally both of them looked at me. “Perhaps it would be best if this were continued inside, in privacy. Certainly that’s more appropriate for such royal discussions.”

  I heard gasps and a bit of muttering from the knights, who were more than aware of my discarding etiquette, but the king did not seem the least put off. “Yes … yes, I daresay you’re correct, squire. Come, my dear. We will speak further on this.” He gestured for her to enter the fort, and as she did so, he turned to me and regarded me most appraisingly. “And you … Apropos … I will speak further on this with you as well.”

  “I await Your Highness’s pleasure,” I said suavely.

  At that point I was feeling extremely tired, not to mention extraordinarily hungry. Suddenly I heard the pounding of hooves behind me, and whirled Titan around instantly to see what new danger was descending upon us. “Get inside!” I shouted even as I did so.

  But the other knights were looking at me as if I were insane, and quickly I realized why. It was another squad of Runcible’s knights, these coming in from the northeast. Gothos had indeed said that several groups had gone out as advance scouts, and this was obviously one of the others. I saw them approach, and recognized the one in the lead almost immediately, and with appropriately sinking heart.

  It was Sir Coreolis. Following just behind him was the easily recognizable Mace Morningstar. There were a handful of other knights behind them, but naturally these were the two who caught my attention. Morningstar had grown a rather impressive and neatly trimmed beard since last I’d seen him, and Coreolis still looked as massive—and belligerent—as ever. Both of them realized who I was almost immediately, and seemed duly impressed (or disappointed) upon the realization.

  They rode straight up to me and Coreolis reined his horse around. “Well, well … Apropos. Still not dead?” he said with a considerable amount of false cheer.

  “Not for want of opportunities,” I replied easily.

  “You wouldn’t be on the lookout for one more, would you, Apropos?” Morningstar spoke up in that singsong, musical voice of his.

  “I’m always on the lookout, Morningstar. That’s why I’m still alive.”

  Coreolis merely “harrumphed” to himself, snapped his reins, and guided himself and the rest of his squadron into the fort. Morningstar took up the rear, presumably so he could sidle over to me once the others were almost within the perimeter of the fort.

  “Well, Apropos?” he inquired.

  He offered no follow-up to that comment. “Well … what, Morningstar?”

  “Is she everything I told you she would be?”

  I remembered then the rather colorful stories that he had spun about Entipy. I decided to lie a bit, just for fun and old times’ sake. “Actually,” I said, looking as contemplative as I could, “she was charming. Quite, quite charming. We hit it off rather well, we two.”

  His face fell. “Charming? That little monster—?”

  “Tut tut,” I cautioned him in a most arch tone. “It would not serve you well to be so outwardly critical of the princess. I doubt her father would take very kindly to that.”

  “And who’s going to tell … him …” His voice trailed off as he saw the sadistic smile upon my face. “Apropos, you … you wouldn’t …”

  “Not enough that you call her a monster. But you told me you spied upon her, while she was in her chambers. I somehow suspect that will get her father even angrier … .”

  He drew himself up, endeavoring to remember where he was in the pecking order of society as opposed to me. “Say what you wish. Who will the king believe: You? Or me?”

  “Me, most likely, when his own daughter vouches for your lack of proper behavior.”

  He went deathly pale, but then composed himself rather quickly and nudged his horse closer to mine. “Don’t think for a moment, Apropos, that you are in substantially a better position than you were before. In the final analysis … you’re still no gentleman.”

  “Why, Mace!” I said with genuine cheer. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” And with that I urged Titan forward and entered the fortress, happy that—for a moment at least—the image of Tacit lying in the snow could be replaced by the scowling visage of Mace Morningstar wondering just how much trouble he was in.

  It didn’t surprise me that it was decided we would stay in the fort overnight. Darkness and cold were coming rather swiftly, and surely it made sense for us to remain so that we could get an early start the following morning. I couldn’t say that I was looking forward to the ride home. I had, after all, been luckier than I deserved to be in surviving the previous deadly encounter with the forces that roamed in the woods. I didn’t think I was going to get quite that lucky again. But there really wasn’t any alternative, unless the king chose to declare Fort Terracote as his new castle and set up a permanent home there.

  The fortress itself, I learned, was fairly sparsely manned. In point of fact, it was somewhat ancient, built so long ago that the names of the original craftsmen had been lost to antiquity. Runcible had “captured” the fort many years ago, mostly because no one else was particularly interested in the place. Reportedly there had been some freelances who had been squatting there when Runcible made his move to take it, and that battle had lasted for as long as it took the squatters to say, “We’ll get packed and out of your way.”

  At the time it held no strategic value at all, and it still didn’t, really. It was a convenient resting stop and not much beside that. The garrison stationed there—under command of Captain Gothos, as it turned out (handpicked by the king for the assignment, which made me wonder what Gothos had ever done to deserve the honor)—was fairly small and had become used to its relatively quiet life. That’s not to say they weren’t n
ecessarily brave men, stout and true. I had, after all, witnessed their bravery as they heroically picked off a swordsman using bows and arrows from fifty paces away. You couldn’t ask for more boldness than that.

  I didn’t see much of either the king or the princess that evening. That suited me just fine, since my mind was in a turmoil over all that had happened. I could see from the way the princess looked at me that she was falling, or had fallen, in love with me. At least, I think she had. I was still uncertain how I felt about that, or how I felt about her. What I did know I liked, though, was the way the knights and soldiers were treating me. They were extremely intrigued to find out all that I knew, all that I had experienced. It made me forget my lowly status and even more lowly birth. I knew on some level that that way lay danger, because it was the knowledge of who and what I was—and the quietly burning fury that I maintained because of that—that remained my best hope for survival. As much as they might treat me like one of them, I was not, and never would be, one of them. Forgetting that fact could have serious consequences. And yet …

  I have never had camaraderie. Not ever. It was an uplifting feeling and, selfishly, I didn’t want it to end. As we sat around the cookfire in the small but comfortable barracks, I discovered that the best way to impress them was to sound as offhand about my experiences as possible. To simply toss off the facts, or at least the facts as I chose to present them, and then treat their wide-eyed responses quite casually, as if such matters were purely routine. “You rode a phoenix?!” they would say to me, and I would shrug and act as if it was not much different from riding any other steed. “You had your way with the dreaded Warlord Shank’s betrothed?!” I smiled enigmatically and waggled my eyebrows. There was much laughter and chortling and elbowing of ribs, which caused me to wince since I was still suffering from the wounds that Tacit had inflicted upon me. But I endured it and maintained a forced smile.

  Sir Coreolis had absented himself from the festivities, but his squire was there right enough. Mace Morningstar simply sat and listened to it all, and when there was a lull in the festivities he said quietly, “Some rather tall tales you’re spinning there, Apropos.”

  I looked at him indifferently. “It may surprise you to learn, Mace, that I don’t especially care if you believe me or not.”

  “Oh … I don’t.”

  The silence in the room promptly became something else, something more hazardous. If Morningstar was to outright call me a liar, that might very easily be construed as a challenge to my honor. That way lay madness … not to mention duels and probably further ugliness.

  I smiled in my most charming manner and said, “As you will, Mace. I know the truth … as does the princess. Even as we speak, she is no doubt conveying the same tales to her father. You remember her father: The king.” I feigned shock. “Are you … calling the princess a liar, Morningstar? I would hate to think you were. Such accusations could carry very nasty consequences.”

  Whereas a moment before, all attention had been upon me, it now shifted back to Morningstar. He squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. “I would never say the princess was lying. But it is possible that she was … deceived …”

  “Unlikely.”

  It was not I who had spoken, nor anyone else grouped around the cookfire. As one we turned and saw the king standing there. Next to him, in his usual crouch, his jaw slack and his eyes twinkling with quiet lunacy, was Odclay the jester.

  Immediately we all went to one knee, although I moaned slightly in doing so from the pain.

  “They bow to me!” chortled Odclay. “They know, they know, they make it so, no one can fool ‘er, I am the true ruler!”

  The king wasted no more than a sidelong glance at Odclay before he turned his attention back to the others. “Squire,” he said in a summoning voice.

  Immediately Morningstar was on his feet, still bowing deeply. “Yes, Highness.”

  “Not you,” he said dismissively. “Apropos.”

  Morningstar’s face went three shades of red as he went back to kneeling, and I rose and also bowed. “Highness?”

  He said nothing, but merely gestured with his head that I should follow him. I did so, not even casting a glance back at the others.

  We walked across the small courtyard of the fortress, Odclay gibbering and capering about, until the king said curtly, “Stop that.” The jester promptly did so and instead walked silently behind the king, hanging his head slightly and looking a bit crestfallen.

  We entered a small building which I took to be, under ordinary circumstances, the quarters of the garrison leader, Gothos. But naturally he had vacated it in order to accommodate the king. So it was not exactly regal, but it remained the best rooms in the place.

  “Sit,” said the king.

  I sat.

  He sat opposite me, gathering his cloak around him. It was black trimmed with silver, but lined with purple.

  “Umbrage is dead.” There was a hint of a question to it, a vague hope, but in truth he knew the answer before he asked it.

  I nodded.

  Even Odclay seemed saddened by it, his mood reflecting the king’s.

  The king absorbed this information, and then said, “Tell me. Everything.”

  So I did. Even in this recounting, there were certain things I customized in order to make myself sound better. For instance, my pleading with the Harpers for my life became a cunning delaying tactic because I had scented and sensed—with my unparalleled woodcraft—the nearness of a phoenix, and determined that I would enlist the beast’s aid in combating the Harpers. Nor did I mention, of course, the details of my final conversation with Tacit right before he was made into a human quiver. Little things like that.

  The king listened to all of it, without interruption, occasionally nodding slightly. Finally, when I finished my narrative, a silence fell over the room.

  “Did you know,” the king said after a time, “that there is a tapestry which hangs in the throne room … showing someone riding a phoenix who is destined to rule over Isteria?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “One might almost think that your description of your endeavors caters to that.”

  I didn’t look the king in the eyes. “If His Highness is implying that I am fabricating it, he need look no further than his own daughter—”

  “Entipy has given an account not dissimilar from yours, actually,” said the king.

  “Well, then—”

  “My daughter,” the king said almost cheerily, “is quite mad.”

  “There are worse fates,” the jester piped up, but then fell silent once more.

  I didn’t know what to say and, for once in my life, said nothing.

  “Then again,” and the king half-smiled, “we’re all a little mad in our own ways. Are we not, squire?”

  I nodded, unsure of how else to respond. When in doubt, agree with a king. Good words to live by … if for no other reason than that they will help you to keep living.

  “My daughter is quite fond of you,” continued the king. “There was once a time when I would have thought her incapable of being fond of anything save causing trouble, bringing us to the brink of war, and driving tutors into asylums. Do you believe that people can change, squire?”

  “I would like to think so, Highness.”

  He looked at me askance. “Have you changed? Squire?”

  I glanced down. “I … do not know, Highness.”

  “An honest answer. Perhaps you have changed at that.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that comment, and somehow didn’t want to know.

  “I have asked Captain Gothos to prepare guest quarters for you,” said Runcible. “Not as fine as this, of course. But suitable to one who single-handedly kept my daughter alive. We shall speak more anon. Odclay will lead you to your room.”

  There was a fire burning in the fireplace nearby. The king rose and went to it, stood in front of it to warm his hands, and appeared lost in thought. Odclay rose without his usual
capering and gestured that I should follow him, which I did. In silence we walked back across the courtyard. The jester kept looking me up and down, as if trying to figure me out. He could spend as much time attempting that as he wanted; heaven knew that I hadn’t managed it yet.

  “Thank you,” I said finally, “for showing me the way to the king’s liquor supply.”

  Odclay studied me with obvious curiosity. “Was that you?” he said distantly.

  “Yes. Yes, of course it was. Why, don’t you remember?”

  “I remember so many things,” sighed Odclay. “The problem is, only half of them are true … and the half which is true keeps changing places with the half which is false.”

  “Thank you for sharing that,” I said diplomatically and spoke no more to him. I didn’t see the point; by tomorrow he’d probably have forgotten we’d chatted at all. On the one hand I felt contempt for him; on the other hand, in some ways he didn’t seem so different from me. Simple creatures with infirmities and weaknesses (mine of body and breeding, his of mind and body and who-knew-what in his own background) doing everything possible to survive in a world that had no care for whether they lived or died.

  I glanced over to the jester, feeling sympathy, and saw a long trail of drool trickling from his jaw, and decided that maybe we were less alike than I was first thinking.

  The room was indeed more than adequate. I enjoyed the relief for the first time in hours, not having to recount stories that I wasn’t comfortable with, or keep up a front or appearances.

  I lay back on the bed—a genuine bed—and thought about Entipy. Did the king really think she was mad? Why shouldn’t he. I did. Or did I?

  I was beginning to get impatient with my life. Everything had been so simple, so clear, when I burned with quiet hatred for everything and anything. But now I was starting to develop loyalties to things other than my own self-interest, and I was uncertain as to whether that was a good thing or not.

  What if she came to me now? If, as I lay there, the door opened and the princess entered and slid into the bed with me? If she insinuated her naked body against me and begged me to take her? With the ghost of Tacit hanging over me, what would I do? I had no idea. And I disliked having no idea. If you were unable to decide what to do about any given situation before it happened, that left open the opportunity for events to overtake you. That was how people got themselves killed, and I had every intention of living as long and full a life as possible.