Death of a King

by Robert Evert

  Somebody nudged him.

  “Get to work,” said a serving girl, this one with black hair and deeply tanned skin.

  “What? Oh, right!”

  Fighting the urge to stare at the glittering chandelier, Magnus went to a vacated table and gathered the dishes. Next to him, two inebriated men were talking about how they could steal from their employer. The idiots were going to get hung if they didn’t keep their voices down.

  That was something else that was amazing. Dressed as the tavern’s cleaning boy, nobody gave him any mind. He could wander about the room, filling tankards or bringing customers extra bread, and they’d carry on with whatever they were saying—even if they were whispering their deepest, darkest secrets.

  Only an hour before, he overheard some wealthy merchant talking disparagingly about his wife to a gorgeous woman who was less than half his age. The way he stroked her hand and leered at her ample chest made it clear she wasn’t his daughter—the cheating sod.

  Pushing in a chair with his hip, Magnus headed to the kitchen feeling like a spy, slipping in and out of the shadows and obtaining all kinds of useful information.

  No, not a spy. An assassin! That was it. He was an assassin carrying out a deadly—

  “You’re a what?”

  Magnus realized he was in the sweltering kitchen. The dark-skinned serving girl was staring at him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and amusement. All about them people dashed, shouting out orders and directions. One of the other serving girls pressed past him, nearly knocking over the soiled plates and bowls perched in his arms.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “You said you were an ass,” the serving girl told him.

  “Did not.”

  “Did so! You walked in here and said, all sneaky-like, ‘I’m an ass!’ You seemed rather proud of it as a matter of fact.”

  Magnus stammered. His ears burned red, though not from the waves of smoky heat rolling out of the many stoves throughout the crowded room. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Thank the gods somebody propped open the back door. Without the fresh air, he would’ve passed out.

  “I suggest you get your head out of yourself and watch where you’re going.” She gestured to the large bucket in which he had been instructed to dump any uneaten or spoiled food. “You almost stepped in the pigs’ dinner.”

  A fork slid from Magnus’s stack of dishes and fell into the rotting slop with a thick kerplunk.

  “Put those plates by the washtub before you break something,” the serving girl went on. “They cost a fortune.” She left the kitchen, carrying a heavily laden tray. “I’m an ass!” She laughed. “At least one man is willing to admit it.”

  Magnus watched her go. She was rather cute. Round face. Big brown eyes. Chocolatey skin. And she’d spoken to him! Sure, she was being mean, but it was in a playfully mean kind of way. Maybe after work he’d—

  One of the apprentice cooks lifted a rack of basted ribs as he hustled to an oven. “Duck!”

  Magnus ducked under it and then retreated to a corner, trying not to get run over. He bumped into somebody carrying a crate of vegetables. “Sorry!”

  “Hey, you. Boy!” one of the cooks called as he mopped the corner of his apron across his brow. Magnus noted the tattoos of dancing women on each muscular forearm. “Put those damned dishes down and get to work. We don’t pay you to gawk at the girls.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Careful not to get in anybody’s way, Magnus set the armload of dishes next to a toothless woman sitting on a low stool, her thin arms elbow-deep in a tub of brownish water that stank worse than the pigs’ slop.

  “She ain’t married,” the old woman said to him as she scrubbed a frying pan, “if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl.” She flicked a hairy chin toward the swinging door to the common room. “Her name’s Melinda. She ain’t married. Doesn’t have nobody as far as I can tell. She might take a shine to a young man like you.”

  A burly cook, half-obscured by a cloud of swirling gray steam, snickered as he stirred a boiling stew. His pot was so large, Magnus could’ve bathed in it. “What? Him? And Melinda? Don’t give the poor lad any ideas. The boy isn’t old enough to know what to do with a woman. Besides, she’d only break the bloke’s tender heart!”

  “I know what to do with a woman,” Magnus found himself saying. “I’ve had lots of women!”

  “Sure you have,” said another worker, his sharp knife cutting up carrots with a quick tat-tat-tat. “Probably suckled at their tits.”

  Laughter drowned out the rattling of pans and dishes.

  “Women or not”—the first cook slammed a meat cleaver down on a side of beef—“get to work. If I tell you again, I’ll add to those bruises on your face!”

  “Fine!” Magnus stalked out of the kitchen, touching the purple lumps on his forehead.

  He could so get a woman like Melinda. All it would take was a few sweet words, and maybe a bunch of flowers. How hard could it be? He’d seen ugly men with women like that. And he wasn’t ugly, not even with his blackened eye. In fact, that lady from the crazy shop called him cute!

  What was her name? Sarah? That couldn’t be it. When she introduced herself, she’d hesitated ever so slightly, as though she had to think about what she wanted to say. People don’t have to think about their names. They simply say it.

  Why’d she use a fake name?

  He cleaned a table, then brought a customer water.

  Maybe she really was a spy! Or maybe she was plotting to take over the kingdom by poisoning all the nobility, one by one. That’s why she’d hired him. She wanted him to murder Lord Hendrick!

  He felt the fragile crystal vial tucked deep into his vest pocket. Would the poison only make Lord Hendrick sick like she said?

  Magnus shrugged.

  It didn’t matter. He was an assassin, skilled in the deadly arts, and any dead nobility was good nob—!

  Magnus froze, terrified he might have been thinking aloud again, but nobody was looking at him. Thank the gods!

  He scrubbed a stubbornly sticky spot on a table.

  At the bar, Melinda filled a fat man’s stein. She winked at him. The man patted her rear. She snickered.

  Magnus went to clean a table in the corner and found that somebody had left a perfectly good, half-eaten steak on their plate. He stared at it, his mouth watering. He had money to buy his own food now. He didn’t have to eat garbage anymore. Then again, this wasn’t garbage. Not technically. Who’d get up and leave food like this? Some rich pisser, most likely. Oh well, his loss. Magnus carried the plates to the kitchen. When nobody was looking, he took three quick bites.

  Oh, by the gods! The meat melted in his mouth. And there was some sort of creamy sauce on it. Something with butter and mushrooms. He was tempted to take another bite, but the cooks were watching him. In the end, and to his immense regret, he dumped it in the pigs’ slop.

  Watching the remains of the steak sink in the brownish sludge, Magnus promised himself that someday he’d eat like that all the time. Not off other people’s plates—but good food that was worth savoring. The stuff he typically ate he had to force down.

  He returned to the dining room. Somebody asked him for bread. He got it for them.

  What had he been thinking about?

  Women! Right.

  He could so have what’s-her-name—the waitress. Then again, Sarah was far more pleasant. Sarah the spy. Okay, she might not be an actual spy, but plainly she wasn’t who she claimed to be.

  He thought about Sarah and how she’d kissed his cheek. Now that was a woman. Beautiful. Intelligent. Albeit, a bit scary. The way she hauled off and slugged him was more than a little disconcerting. Then again, there was something immensely pragmatic about having a woman who could take care of herself.

  He brought another armload of dishes to the toothless hag by the washing tub and then hurried to the much cooler dining room.

 
Maybe he’d buy Sarah flowers or take her dancing or something. Girls liked to dance. Then again, she wasn’t exactly the graceful type. She sort of lumbered like a man.

  Why was that? What kind of woman raced around in such a rush? When they went to her shop, he had to jog to keep up. Maybe she had a lot of money on her. That would explain it. After all, she was going to pay him three gold to complete his mission.

  Somebody jostled his elbow.

  Swearing, Magnus turned and, seeing who it was, sprang back—the steins and plates he was holding crashing to the floor.

  “Terribly sorry, my lad,” Lord Hendrick said to him. “Didn’t mean to startle you, but I was having a devil of a time getting your attention.”

  Magnus glanced wildly about. Every table was full of customers, the soft orange glow of candlelight bathing their faces as they chatted away. People stood by the bar, unable to get a stool. Outside was dark.

  “What?” asked Magnus. “I mean…sir? What—what can I do for you?”

  “Ah, very good. I’d like your best brandy. The very best, mind you.” Sir Hendrick straightened his satin weskit with apparent pride. “Setting off on a little adventure, don’t you know? For the king and all that. I always toast to my future success. Always with brandy. So only the best, lad. Make sure of it!”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll—” Magnus bent over to pick up a busted plate. As he did so, the small crystal vial fell from his pocket and shattered on the ground, amber fluid oozing into the floorboards.

  Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—shit!

  Lord Hendrick stooped and retrieved the remains of the vial.

  “Pity.” He sniffed the poison that had gotten on his fingers. “Perfume?”

  Everybody was looking at them.

  “What? What, sir? Yes, yes. Perfume. For a girl. For a girl I, uh, met.” Magnus gave a nervous cackle. “I guess I was trying to impress her. You know how girls are.”

  “I do, indeed.” Sir Hendrick gave him a bronze piece. “Here. Buy her some more. But not this stuff.” He wrinkled his nose as he wiped the thick liquid onto a napkin. “It scarcely has any scent at all. Have another woman pick it out for you. You won’t go wrong with a woman’s opinion.”

  “Yes, sir,” Magnus said dejectedly as Lord Hendrick tossed the empty vial onto the mound of plates.

  He blinked at it.

  “Lad?” Lord Hendrick tapped Magnus’s arm.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The brandy?”

  Melinda stepped forward. “I’ll get it for you, my lord. Off on another quest, I hear! How impressive.” She nudged Magnus and nodded to the broken dishes strewn about the floor. “Clean this up, Mr. Ass. Girls don’t like boys without jobs.”

  “Tell me about it,” Magnus grumbled, gathering the plates together.

  Three gold down the drain. No, not down the drain—between the floorboards. Oh, what he could have done with that money. He could’ve gotten a place to live, had real meals instead of begging for scraps. He might have been able to buy his way into a guild. Then he could’ve earned more money. He could’ve had a life. A real life with a future!

  “Lad,” Lord Hendrick called to Magnus as he headed into the kitchen. “Bring me a bowl of whatever the cook is making. It smells scrumptious.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Magnus dumped the dishes into the garbage and stared at the vial.

  He might as well leave. No sense working anymore. He was going to owe the tavern owner more for the plates than he’d make all night. All week, even.

  Three stinking gold. He could’ve been rich!

  His frustrated gaze came to rest on the pigs’ slop bucket. A creamy white maggot crawled over a piece of the rotting meat.

  Why the hell would they have that in the kitchen? Why not put it in the alley? Nobody would steal it. Even he wouldn’t eat that crap, not in a million years. It’d make him…

  Sick.

  “Boy!” the burly cook shouted. “Lord Hendrick’s stew is getting cold! And, so help me, if you forget his bread, I’ll bounce you out on your ass.”

  Magnus’s grin grew. “Yes, sir!”

  Chapter Three

  “Did the boy manage it?” Sir Edris asked Natalie as he entered her shop. He had to duck and turn sideways in order to get through the door—and even with that, he hardly fit. “I can’t have Hen getting in my way. Not again. The royal ass.”

  Natalie sat at a table, polishing a tarnished silver necklace she was going to exhibit in the front window. It was old-fashioned, with small green stones forming what might have been a raindrop or a tear. At any rate, she’d considered keeping it for herself, but Reg had recently given her a gold necklace, and she didn’t want him thinking she liked this one better.

  Men and their delicate egos…

  “Nat?”

  She picked at a tough piece of grime wedged between two stones. “He did it in his own fashion.”

  Sir Edris closed and locked the door. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Natalie braced herself for the tirade she knew was coming. “He couldn’t use the vial.”

  “Why the blazes not?” Sir Edris plucked an apple from a bowl of fruit. “It cost a king’s ransom. Do you know what I had to do to get something that subtle?” He took a bite. Face puckering, he put the apple back.

  “You’re putting a half-eaten piece of fruit back in the bowl?”

  “It’s sour.”

  Rolling her eyes, Natalie got up and threw the apple away.

  Sir Edris sat at the table, his enormous girth threatening to crush the wooden chair. “So what happened? Why didn’t he use what we gave him? It was the perfect poison, tasteless and effective, without the possibility of something tragic happening.”

  “From what I could gather,” she said, sitting across from him, “a serving girl broke it when she tried to kiss him. Pushed against it or something.”

  “Serving girl?” Then Sir Edris conceded, “I suppose some girls like crippled boys.” He smirked at her.

  “Oh, stop. And don’t call him that. I think he has real potential.”

  “You know what I say about emotions.”

  “Yes, and I also know it’s a load of crap.” She resumed polishing the necklace. “You’ve put your life in danger for me more times than I can count.”

  “That’s different!”

  “How so?”

  “Because you’re my favorite daughter.”

  Natalie never knew how to respond when he said such things. Of course, she loved him like a father. She loved him to the very core of her soul. The dilemma was she’d also loved her real father, and she felt guilty giving his role to another man.

  She squeezed his hand affectionately. Secretly she worried about him. The latest quest was weighing heavily on his mind. He and Reg had searched for months for the Helm of Havnar, riding frantically here and there, exploring all of its plausible hiding spots—but to no avail. It was the third quest in a row where they had been completely out of contention and losing wasn’t sitting well with the famous knight.

  “Anyway,” she continued, setting the necklace aside, “to answer your question, Magnus more than accomplished his assignment. Lord Hendrick is sicker than a dog. He’ll be laid up at least two weeks, if not more, from what I hear.”

  “Yes, but what we hear could be a load of poppycock. Two weeks is a long time for anybody to be laid up. He could be faking it. I’ll pay the noble ass a visit and see for myself.” Sir Edris drummed his fingers on the table and then gave in to his curiosity. “So what did the cripple do?”

  “Sir Edris!”

  “Oh, very blasted well. You know what I mean. So what did the boy do? After the waitress broke the vial, I mean?”

  “He put rancid meat in Lord Hendrick’s stew.”

  Sir Edris hooted. “That’s good. Very good! Quick thinking on the crip—on the boy’s part. Perhaps he has some ability after all.”

  “So another mission might be worthwhile? Maybe somethi
ng small that would help us evaluate his future utility?”

  Sir Edris started to say no and then vacillated.

  “What?” asked Natalie.

  “There’s this book,” he said begrudgingly. “I’ve had it altered. It could be a good red herring.”

  “I’ll have Magnus take care of it.”

  “Listen, Nat,” Sir Edris said. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything that could be connected with us. What we’re doing, it happens all the time, of course. By others, I mean. However, I’ve always taken great pains to—”

  “Nobody will find out.”

  With a grunt, Sir Edris got to his feet. “I don’t particularly care for these kinds of escapades. They’re unseemly.”

  Natalie was going to ask why he was sabotaging other adventurers if he didn’t like such tactics. But she knew the answer. She could see the anxiety in his haggard face. Time was ebbing away. Soon, there wouldn’t be any left, and he only needed one more quest to tie Sir Drake’s record—just one more win to equal the greatest adventurer in history.

  “Nobody will find out,” she told him. “I’ll watch him closely and make sure he doesn’t do anything that could raise suspicion.”

  “See that you do.” Sir Edris opened the door to the alley. “And Natalie…”

  “I love you, too.”

  Sir Edris smiled at her, the first real smile he’d given in months. For a moment, he appeared twenty years younger. “I need you to know, no matter what happens, no matter how things turn out in the end…you’ll always be a daughter to me. My real daughter.”

  “I know.”

  “And if that cripple tells anybody what we’re doing, I’ll bury him. I mean it, Nat. I won’t tolerate another traitor like Roland. There’s too much riding on this.”

  Chapter Four

  “And then the vial,” Magnus said breathlessly, “fell out of my pocket!”

  Sitting across from him in the otherwise empty Drunken Soldier tavern, Allyn skeptically swirled his wine. “It did?” He inserted his feminine nose into the goblet and sniffed.

  “Exactly!” Magnus extended his good arm, acting out the scene. “I dove and tried to catch it, but it slipped through my fingers and crashed on the ground, right at his feet!”