Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

  “Oh, hello!” he said. “Come for a nice look round, have you? That’s nice. Always glad to see a new face. Don’t get many visitors these days, which is probably just as well. They will keep trying to touch things . . . Of course, the Forest’s real weapons depository, the actual armour for the actual armoury, isn’t here anymore. No, that’s held somewhere else, under control of Parliament. They’ve got all the shiny new stuff. This is just a museum.” He laughed happily. “That’s what they think! Hello, I’m Bertram Pettydew, Forest Castle Armourer. Who are you, and why can I see through you?”

  “I’m Sir Jasper, the ghost. I’m almost sure I know this place, from before.”

  “Really?” said Bertram. “Then you must have the full guided tour! You must, you must! See if we can’t jog a few ectoplasmic grey cells, hmm? Follow me, and stick close to the light, there’s a good dead person. The shadows can be treacherous.”

  He led the way deeper into the Armoury, with Sir Jasper sticking close to his side. The ghost got the feeling that this Armoury could still be dangerous, if it felt like it. And he wasn’t at all sure that being dead would be any protection against some of the things he could sense lurking in the shadows.

  “The Armoury is almost forgotten, these days,” said Bertram again, peering happily about him, already in full lecture mode. “A last repository for all the weapons that changed history, down through the many years. And a few others that might have, if anyone had dared use them.” He paused to drop Sir Jasper a conspiratorial wink. “Parliament only thinks they’ve got the good stuff! Hah! That’s what I say. Hah! The day they came looking, all the really good stuff hid itself till they were gone. The politicians and the like just took away all the rubbish I’ve been trying to get rid of for years. Laugh? I thought I’d never breathe again . . . The King knows the true state of affairs, of course. When he remembers. And Prince Richard, of course. Fine young fellow. Mind out for the mantraps.”

  He escorted Sir Jasper from one legendary display to another, putting names to old and terrible weapons that had done good service for the Land in their day, and giving the ghost a quick précis of wars and battles long gone. He seemed quite comfortable around Sir Jasper, who thought Bertram was just glad to have someone to talk to and show off his beloved exhibits to. They stopped before an empty setting, and Sir Jasper immediately backed away a few steps. There was something about the empty space that set all his nerves on edge. Bertram Pettydew nodded solemnly.

  “Oh yes . . . This is where the Infernal Devices used to stand. The most evil, cruel, and powerful blades this Armoury has ever known. Don’t ask me when they were originally fashioned, or why; such knowledge is long gone, and probably best forgotten.”

  “Rockbreaker,” Sir Jasper said slowly. “Flarebright. Wulfsbane.” His whispered words seem to echo on, hanging in the still air.

  “Yes! Fancy you knowing that! Not many remember those names these days. A lot of the old songs and stories have been terribly whitewashed, cleaned up and sanitised, for modern ears. Don’t want anything that might upset people . . . Idiots! History is supposed to be upsetting, to make sure you don’t do it again! But no one listens to me.” He looked almost benevolently on the empty space. “All gone now, of course. Lost or destroyed, in the final days of the Demon War. We still get reports of their turning up, here and there . . . but it always turns out to be a false alarm. Just as well, really. We do still have some very useful items here, though—terribly powerful and quite upsetting if you think what they might do in the wrong hands. Or even the right ones . . . I suppose Parliament should be told we still have them. I’m almost certain I’ll get around to telling them. One day. When they need to know.”

  They moved on, Bertram happily pointing out axes of mass destruction, and spears that could fly for miles to take out one target among hundreds, and even a set of arrows that were supposed to shoot through Time and take out an enemy in the past or the future. And then he stopped suddenly, so Sir Jasper stopped with him. Bertram Pettydew heaved a sigh.

  “Is there anything sadder than an Armoury that’s no longer useful, no longer needed?”

  “Well, that’s Peace, isn’t it?” said the ghost vaguely.

  “Oh, of course! Of course!” said Bertram. “But I do miss a good war. You only get really good deeds during a war.”

  “War is coming,” said Sir Jasper, with a quiet, calm certainty that made the Armourer look at him closely. Sir Jasper shrugged. “I seem to feel it. And I am rarely wrong about these things.”

  “Who are you, exactly?” said Bertram, blinking at him through his huge glasses. “I mean, really?”

  “I’m Sir Jasper. I think. It’s actually quite freeing, you know . . . not to be certain who you are, or what you were. It takes all the pressure off. But . . . more and more I think I did something bad while I was alive. And that’s why I’m still here. And I know I was here, before. In this place, this Armoury. I drew a great sword and I went out to fight for my country. But who did I fight, and for what cause? For what King? And why do I have this terrible, overwhelming feeling . . . that I have been brought back to Forest Castle for a reason?”

  Bertram Pettydew waited patiently, but Sir Jasper had nothing more to say. After a while, the ghost nodded vaguely to the Armourer, and the two of them walked back out of the Armoury. There was a faint layer of dust on the floor, and Bertram couldn’t help noticing that he was the only one leaving footsteps. They finally ended up at the closed main doors. Sir Jasper looked back into the gloom.

  “How can you stand to be here, Armourer? This place is full of ghosts.”

  “They don’t bother me,” said Bertram kindly.

  • • •

  Back in the Great Hall, the Banquet of Welcome was still going strong. Food was still coming, drink was still flowing, and the roar of happy conversations had long since drowned out the orchestra, who had given up, and were now sitting around passing hand-rolleds back and forth. Everything seemed to be going well. The desserts had finally arrived, fabulous creations with more chocolate and cream than even the most hardened digestion could safely handle, and men and women who only a moment before had been heard to say that they couldn’t manage another mouthful, stared at what had just landed on their plates and said, “Oh, go on, then, twist my arm.”

  Someone sent a whole raft of drinks over to the orchestra, along with requests, and they cheerfully launched into a series of riotous old folk songs of quite staggering rudeness. Richard knew the lyrics to some of them, and really hoped Catherine didn’t.

  Two tables down from the head table, only a dozen feet from where the King and his guests were sitting, a minor Lady stood up suddenly. People cheered her on, thinking she was about to make a toast. She stared around her with bulging eyes, tried desperately to say something, and then fell forward, crashing across the table, and lay still. At first, her neighbours just stared, or made loud remarks about minor aristocracy who couldn’t handle their drink. But then someone leaned forward for a closer look, and recoiled, shouting, “She’s dead! She’s dead!”

  The whole hall fell silent. Prince Richard was immediately on his feet, barking out orders, because the King was clearly bewildered. Richard had the guards surround the dead Lady’s table with drawn swords, to make sure no one disturbed the body, and he sent more guards to block off the entrance doors. Guests were rising to their feet all around the hall and clearly getting ready to leave, until Richard’s guards made it clear that wasn’t an option. At sword point, if necessary. The Lords and Ladies glared angrily at Richard, and he glared right back at them until they subsided. He spoke quickly to the Seneschal, making it clear he was not to leave the King’s side, and then Richard went down to take a look at the body.

  The Sombre Warrior was also on his feet, standing beside the shaken Princess Catherine with his sword in his hand. The dead woman was none of his concern; he knew his duty. Lady Gertrude moved quickly to sit beside Catherine, in Richard’s empty seat, and held the Princess’ ha
nd firmly in her own. The Seneschal called forward the doctor he’d kept standing by, just in case King Rufus was worse than usual and needed a little something to keep him quiet. Dr. Stein moved quickly over to join Prince Richard. A small and only slightly fussy type of person, he was entirely calm and professional as he examined the dead body, and then looked steadily at Richard.

  “Undeniably poison, your highness. Blue lips, flushed face, several other unmistakable signs. As to how . . . ?”

  Everyone else who’d been sitting at the table with the dead Lady immediately jumped to their feet and clutched at one another, loudly demanding to be able to leave the table. Richard sent them away with Dr. Stein, along with quiet orders to give them all a good purge, just in case. The King was on his feet now, plaintively demanding to know what was going on, while the Seneschal did his best to calm him, but finally he had to tell the King what had happened.

  “It’s the lady Melanie Drayson, Sire. It would appear that she’s been poisoned.”

  King Rufus nodded vaguely a few times, and then his head came up sharply, and just like that, his mouth was firm and his eyes were clear.

  “Far too minor a line to be the real target, Seneschal. So who was the poison really meant for? Hmm? Has to be the Princess.”

  “Poison?” Lady Gertrude said shrilly, rising to her feet and looking wildly about her. “Someone has tried to poison my poppet? That’s it! Catherine, we have to get out of here! We can’t stay in this terrible place a moment longer! We have to go home!”

  “Hush, Gertrude! Get a hold of yourself!” Catherine said harshly, and Gertrude immediately quietened. Catherine looked at the Sombre Warrior. “You are still sure the brigands who attacked our carriage came from Redhart? Then I wouldn’t be any safer there, would I? Stop snivelling, Lady Gertrude! Compose yourself. No, the only way for me to be truly safe is to be married. After that, the enemies of the Peace agreement will have no reason to kill me. And the Peace agreement is too important to be risked.” She looked across the quiet hall at Prince Richard. “Do you have any objection to moving our marriage forward, Richard?”

  “No,” Richard said evenly. “You’re quite right; the agreement must come first. Under the circumstances, I think we should be married first thing tomorrow morning. Seneschal, make the arrangements. The Princess’ safety must be assured.”

  “Of course, your highness,” said the Seneschal.

  King Rufus turned to the Seneschal. “First, summon my Necromancer. I have need of his abilities. He will uncover the truth of what has happened here.”

  The entrance doors opened abruptly, somewhat to the surprise of the guards who’d just locked them. The doors swung wide and the guards fell back, as a young man dressed entirely in black strode into the suddenly silent hall. He advanced steadily through the massed tables, and everyone he passed shrank back from him.

  “Who the hell is that?” murmured Catherine.

  “That is Raven,” the Seneschal said quietly. “Our most powerful sorcerer. Called Raven because he always dresses in black, like a bird of ill omen. And yes, he often does turn up before he’s called for. It’s actually one of the least disturbing things about him.”

  “Is he really . . . ?”

  “A Necromancer? Oh yes. He deals in death, and the magic of murder.”

  Raven the Necromancer was a tall, almost unhealthily slender fellow in his early thirties, with more than a touch of the theatrical about him. His long black robes swept around like dark wings as he moved, and when he pushed back his dark cowl it revealed a sardonic, even sinister face, with a shaven head, dark, piercing eyes, and a wide smile. He grinned broadly and looked around, sparing no one; the best thing that could be said about his smile was that it wasn’t deliberately unsettling. (There were those who said he cast too many shadows, and that you could hear the muttering of dead voices as he passed, but people said a lot of things about the Necromancer.) Raven finally came to the dead Lady, still lying across the table. Richard started to repeat what Dr. Stein had told him, but Raven stopped him with a look.

  “I know,” said the Necromancer, in a calm, pleasant voice. “Poison. I can even tell you which poison. Belladonna.”

  “How can he know?” said Catherine to the Seneschal.

  “Because he knows everything there is to know about death, and murder, the spooky little creep,” said the Seneschal.

  “I heard that!” said Raven, not looking round. And then he spun, in a whirl of dark robes, and looked up and down the hall. “And I know who the poisoner is. You!”

  He stabbed an unwavering finger at a minor Member of Parliament, one Silas DeGeorge, at one of the lesser tables. Silas stood up immediately, while everyone else scrambled to get well away from him. No one was particularly surprised. DeGeorge was a well-known opponent in Parliament of the Peace agreement, and the wedding. His round face was pale and sweaty, and he looked furtively about him for signs of support, or just a way out.

  “That’s it?” Catherine said to the Seneschal. “Raven just points the finger, and everyone accepts that the man’s guilty?”

  “Pretty much,” said the Seneschal. “Raven’s never wrong. And anyway, look at DeGeorge.”

  Silas DeGeorge glared defiantly at Raven. “What have we come to, when the King makes use of such as you? You’ll never get anything out of me! Long live the cause!”

  He slipped a pill into his mouth and washed it down with a glass of wine. And then just like the Lady he’d murdered, he fell forward and was dead before he hit the table. There was a loud gabble of protest from everyone who’d been sitting anywhere near him, to make it clear they weren’t involved and knew nothing of what he’d planned. Richard had the guards move them away, and then stared coldly at the dead body of Silas DeGeorge.

  “Raven?”

  “Of course, your highness. I will need somewhere private to work.”

  Catherine threw off restraining hands from Gertrude and the Sombre Warrior, and hurried over to join Richard. She glanced at Raven, and then at the Prince.

  “He’s not joking, is he? He really is a Necromancer! How can you stand to have a man like that around you? In Redhart, we usually have them killed the moment they reveal themselves!”

  “Well, cancel my holiday plans,” murmured Raven.

  “Really powerful sorcerers are somewhat thin on the ground these days,” said Richard. “We feel it’s better to have him here, where we can keep an eye on him, and have some measure of control over him. And you are very loyal, aren’t you, Raven?”

  “Of course, your highness,” said Raven, inclining his shaven head just a little.

  “For your own reasons, no doubt.” Richard looked at Catherine. “Don’t you have any sorcerers at Redhart?”

  “Only the healthy kind,” said Catherine.

  “That’s what you think,” said Raven, smiling easily into Catherine’s glare before turning to bow to King Rufus, who’d just arrived.

  “Can’t do it here,” the King said bluffly. “Not at all suitable, for a public place. Necromancy should always be a private matter. Seneschal! Is there any empty room nearby we can use?”

  “Just down the corridor, Sire,” said the Seneschal.

  The King looked at Raven, Richard, the Seneschal, and at the approaching Sombre Warrior. “Pick up the body, gentlemen. And follow me. And then we’ll see what answers we can get out of this most ignoble traitor.”

  “I’m coming too,” Catherine said immediately.

  “As you wish,” said the King. “But you don’t get to interfere. No matter what. Will your companion be joining us?”

  Catherine looked back at Gertrude, who shook her head fiercely. Richard looked at the First Minister, who was politely comforting Gertrude, and he shook his head firmly too.

  • • •

  They carried the dead man out of the Great Hall, and down the corridor, and into the empty room. They sat Silas DeGeorge in a chair and arranged him neatly. He looked very small, almost shrunken. Richard surrep
titiously checked the man’s pulse, just to assure himself the murderer really was dead. He stepped back, and for a long moment everyone just looked at one another, not knowing what to say for the best. Finally King Rufus nodded stiffly to Raven, who smiled and bowed, then moved forward to stand before the body of Silas DeGeorge. The Necromancer made no mystical gestures, spoke no magical chants; he just looked the dead man in the eye and spoke directly to him.

  “Silas DeGeorge, return to us. The Outer Reaches have no hold on you while I am here. My power calls you back, for a time. Speak to me and answer truly all questions that are put to you.”

  And everyone in the room apart from Raven shrank back in revulsion as the corpse writhed and squirmed in the chair. Its eyes were fixed on Raven, though everyone could tell they didn’t focus. The stench of rot and corruption was heavy in the room. The corpse smiled slowly and began to speak, in a low, breathy voice that had no human inflection in it at all.

  “Hello, Raven. They’ve been waiting for you to summon me back. They know your name, the Lords of the Gulf do. There is a price for the powers you use, and they can’t wait to make you pay it. Down here, in the Houses of Pain. What’s waiting for me is nothing compared to what they have in store for you.”

  “Hush and be obedient, unquiet spirit,” said Raven, apparently entirely unmoved by the dead man’s words. “Speak only as you are commanded, and speak only the truth.”

  “But I do, little Necromancer, I do . . .”

  “Why did you kill Lady Melanie?”

  “It wasn’t meant to be her,” said the corpse. “The poison was intended for Princess Catherine, to start a war. So many people in both Lands want this war, for so many reasons . . . You’d be surprised. How can you hope to stand against them? But somehow the poison in the wineglass missed its proper target. Ended up at the wrong table. Never trust a waiter . . . And no, before you ask—I have no idea where my orders came from. Just an anonymous note, pushed under my door.”