King Pinch

by David Cook

  It was late in the afternoon, and the palace was teeming with lord, ladies, pages, and squires. Tomorrow was the Festival of Wealth, which alone would have been enough to fill the palace. Tomorrow was a day more than that, though. The Red Priests had declared that day auspicious for the Rite of Ascendancy. Pinch was certain Vargo had played the astrologer for this choice. With Iron-Biter’s assurance that Pinch had been foiled, Vargo would want to act quickly before the stakes changed.

  Consequently, anyone who hoped to be anything—which meant everyone—had descended on the palace. Counts, knights, poets, and merchants hovered in the halls or held court in the salons. Like gamblers at the track, the courtiers flitted from one faction to the next, trying to guess the outcome of the race. No man wanted to side with the losing party, but no one wanted to look indecisive either.

  Friends were to be rewarded, enemies bought or crushed, and neutrals ignored. That was the way of these things.

  It amused Pinch to read the faces of those around him, their plots so easily exposed in the astonishment of seeing him. Pinch’s appearance upset the odds. Suddenly the Lord Chamberlain’s faction wasn’t so weak and hopeless as it had been moments before. Everyone knew Cleedis had brought Pinch back to Ankhapur, but no one could say for sure why. Only Iron-Biter had any clue, and even he did not know the whole of it.

  Pinch threaded his way through the crowded salons, passing through the circles of courtiers. First there were the revelers, blissfully dumb of the greater stakes that tomorrow held. Dressed in their festival finery, these vain lackwits came to drink, to dance, and to be seen. Pinch perused them with the eye of a poultry buyer at market, making professional note of their plumage and purses. In his other life, these would have been the targets of his trade. Even now he looked at his stiff hand and yearned for a chance to put himself to the test.

  Reluctantly he plunged into the next layer, where the ladies danced in stately lines while their lords hovered in knots of casually earnest discussion. This was the realm of hopefuls, those who conspired to advance by guessing the right horse. They eyed Pinch with suspicion and lust, eager to know what he portended, afraid to approach lest they be branded his ally. There was no comparison for them in Pinch’s previous life; they had been as far from his reach as the moon and stars. Now he was as much above them and warranted them less concern than he had the revelers of moments before.

  The third circle, the core of it all, was his goal. There, in those salons deepest from the city, swaddled in the layers of bodyguards, claimants, and sycophants, were the objects of all concern—the three princes. Cleedis was right where Pinch expected to find him, at the center of Bors’s faction. Dwarfed by the soaring pillars of the Great Hall, the shunned coterie of the Lord Chamberlain drifted forlornly, waiting for a vitalizing spark. The princely idiot Bors clapped to the music that echoed from the dancing halls while Cleedis stood in serious conference with the few plump, waistcoated lords committed to his side. They were an unhappy-looking lot, men trapped by their titles, friendships, and favors to what looked for certain a losing cause. Few held any belief that the benevolent gods of Ankhapur would choose Bors as fit to rule the city. Cleedis alone held firm in that faith, futilely trying to rally supporters to his cause.

  Pinch’s arrival carried that wanted spark. The paunchy old knights, former captains of Manferic’s army, drew aside for the younger man, younger at least by comparison.

  “Lord Chamberlain,” Pinch said as he came up behind old Cleedis, who to that point had been quietly haranguing a flagging member of his entourage, the Royal Steward of the Stables.

  The old man stopped talking with a sort of choked gasp and turned about all in one go. It was a credit to his years of toadying that the Lord Chamberlain didn’t blurt out his surprise. “Master Janol, how fare you? Rumor was spoken by certain mouths that we would not see you again.”

  “Sometimes rumor are just rumors. I’m well, Cleedis.” Pinch let the pleasant smile drop from his mask. “A word, Cleedis. Now. Privately.”

  The old man arched one graying eyebrow. “Of course, cousin. Glindon, send word to Princes Vargo and Throdus that should they hear tales of their cousin’s absence, they are not to worry. Tell them such talk is completely groundless and that he is well and with us here.”

  The page rolled his eyes, trying to remember the exact wording, and then hurried off to complete his task.

  “Lords, excuse me.” Taking Pinch by the arm, Cleedis hurried them both into a small side chamber, barely larger than a dressing closet. The old man shut the door, latched it, and turned on his agent, the bluish veins on his temple standing out.

  “Where have you been? Vargo’s had it out that you’re dead or scuppered off someplace. There’s been havoc to play with the ranks, positive mutiny. They think I’ve lost control.” The chamberlain was hopping with indignation, furious but dependent on Pinch for answers.

  “It was near enough to the truth, but I’ve made it.”

  “Do you have them—the items?”

  Pinch found the old man’s haste annoying. Brokering was a fine art that, properly done, should be approached casually. This eagerness was unseemly.

  “They’re where I can put my hands on them. Let’s talk payment.

  “We did. Fifty thousand bicentas.”

  Pinch regretfully shook his head. “That was then. Now I think the job’s worth more.”

  Cleedis sucked at his teeth, clearly unwilling to name a figure. Finally he expansively offered, “Ten thousand more.”

  Pinch laughed a short, derisive snort. He held up his branded hand. “My price is another fifty thousand.”

  It was the chamberlain’s turn to sputter. “Fifty more? Impossible!”

  “I have the items; you don’t.”

  “What of that? They’re not necessary for the plan,” the old man snapped.

  Pinch pricked up his ears. It was the first Cleedis had let on that he knew the whole of Manferic’s scheme. He answered with a heartless drawl. “It would be unfortunate if the genuine articles were discovered by Vargo or Throdus.”

  “I’ll kill you myself first!”

  “Harm me and it’s guaranteed.

  Cleedis glowered. “Thirty more,” he finally said with a sullen mumble.

  “Forty-five.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Forty, or Vargo learns everything.”

  The old campaigner broke into a hacking cough. “Forty then, damn you,” he gasped as the fit subsided.

  “Forty more it is, Cleedis.” With triumphant cheer, Pinch clapped the other on the shoulder. “In gems—mixed sizes and properly appraised. Don’t try to cheat me on that. My friends have good eyes for stones. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” There was hardly any cheer in Cleedis. “It will all be ready when you deliver the Cup to Manferic.”

  “Me deliver? No, I’ll pass it to you.”

  “Our lord insists you bring it to him. The stones will be ready then.” It was the chamberlain’s turn to drive a hard bargain. “If you do not deliver, there will be no payment.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight—after the banquet.”

  Pinch didn’t like it but he could not refuse. There was still one more card in this game he needed to play. “Agreed, tonight.”

  Cleedis shuffled to the door. “After the banquet. Now, I must return before more bolt from my side.”

  Just as the old man started to open the door, Pinch played his last trump. “One other condition, Lord Cleedis. My mother—you will take me to my mother.

  The hand stopped on the knob. “That’s … impossible. She’s dead.”

  “Don’t lie to me, old fool. I know she’s alive and that Ikrit guards her.” Pinch was bluffing on a dead hand, but there was no need for Cleedis to see that.

  “How much do you know?” the chamberlain whispered.

  “Everything. Manferic, Mother, all of it.”

  They locked gazes, gamblers trying to read the bluff in the other’s ey
es. The stakes were new to Pinch, but the game he knew. Cleedis tried his statesman’s best, but in the end the silent struggle went to the younger man.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “I didn’t even know she’d survived all these year until you came. Ikrit was supposed to have killed her long ago.”

  Pinch smiled grimly. The bluff had succeeded; what he’d guessed was true. “Why, Cleedis? Why did he deny me for all these years?”

  The chamberlain shook his powder-white head. “That you’ll have to ask Manferic when you see him—tonight.” With that, the weary official slipped away before Pinch could impose any more conditions.

  The questions asked, Pinch suddenly felt the weariness of his life settle over him. He’d been about for days now with barely a rest, twice beaten, twice healed, underfed, and overimbibed. He couldn’t take another revelation, another wonder, without first the benefit of sleep. With a perfunctory bow to the lords assembled, he took his leave of Cleedis’s clique and headed for the relative safety of his rooms.

  As he passed a small salon, he was hailed by a voice that could not be ignored.

  “Cousin.”

  Pinch stopped and gave a weary bow. “Greetings, Prince Vargo.”

  “Cousin Janol, stay awhile. I want a word with you.” With a sharp signal, the dark-haired prince dismissed those clustered around the chaise where he’d been lounging. “Sit here and attend me.” Vargo pulled aside the sweep of his dressing gowns to open a seat for his guest.

  Pinch inwardly cursed himself for blindly straying too close to the prince’s orbit, but now snared he could not escape. A quick scan of Vargo’s hangers-on revealed Iron-Biter was not present, and that was a small relief. There was no saying how the dwarf might greet him and Pinch was not ready to find out. Stifling his resigned sigh and falsely filling himself with enthusiasm, Pinch took the seat offered.

  “There was word you were unwell, cousin,” Vargo said as he sipped at his morning tea. He oozed the charm of an unquestioned superior merely marking time to his ultimate victory. “Everyone was concerned.”

  Pinch accepted the tea a servant offered. “My lord, as you see, I am quite well. You should be wary of those who spread gossip. Perhaps they sought to embarrass you.”

  “I considered my source unimpeachable.” The false concern was slipping away from his royal host.

  “And yet I’m here and your source has been impeached.”

  Vargo set his cup aside. “What service have you done for old Cleedis? I know you, Pinch. You’re a guttersnipe playing at nobility, like you always were and always will be. Well, guttersnipe, name your price. I can make you a wealthy man. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” The words hissed with soft anger between them.

  Pinch ignored the cut. His pride could not be wounded by hollow words. There was only one thing untrue in what Vargo said—he wasn’t just playing at nobility. He had the blood in his veins—all these years. Vargo’s taunt was the finger that released the bolt, the magical words that triggered what was locked inside him. All the memories that he’d forgotten, set aside, and ignored roiled back to the surface—the slights at his parentage, the constant reminders that they were greater than he, the threats and promises that always began, “When I become king …” Vargo was right, he did have a price. So why not steal from them the only treasure they cared for? It would be the grandest theft of all and it warmed the cold side of his heart.

  Draining the last of his tea, he stood and politely bowed to his enemy. “What I want, you won’t pay me, Vargo.”

  “Name it. Gold? Magic? Women? Charter for a thieves’ guild? Iron-Biter? Maybe you’d like the dwarf for your revenge? Take him, do what you want. He’s yours if you want him.”

  Pinch just shook his head. “Your crown, the one you covet. For that I might even give you back your life.”

  The prince’s face went red, then purple, and Pinch thought for certain he was about to explode in a gale of rage. All at once Vargo burst into a thunder of laughter. The servitors and courtiers craned their necks to see what was happening even while they pretended not to notice.

  “Wit—even in the face of defeat!” the noble kin croaked out through gasps of air. A tear moistened his cheek. “It is one of your most pointlessly admirable traits, dear Janol.

  “But know this, cousin,” he added as his fit subsided, “you’ve made a bad choice of stars to set your fate by. Bors will never be king. Should it be Throdus or should it be I, we’ll pluck you from our scalp like the flea you are. Now begone. You no longer amuse me.”

  At another wave, the courtiers closed back in again. The audience was over. Pinch snaked through the chambers, brushing away the insignificants who wanted to talk to him, and returned to his rooms. There the magnificently overstuffed featherbed welcomed him with outstretched pillows. Pinch collapsed into it like a sailor drowning in the arms of the sea.

  “Sprite, you here?” he asked as he lay staring at the canopy.

  “Aye, Pinch,” came the halfling’s nasal voice in answer.

  “Any troubles?”

  “Getting in? No—slipped in behind you and you didn’t notice,” Sprite bragged. “You’re getting almost as bad as those guards, blind as posts. It was an easy walk.”

  Pinch smiled where he lay. It was true, the halfling had managed to evade him completely. “What about out?”

  “I can crack the door and slip behind their backs without notice,” the little sneak answered with great confidence. “Like I said, blind as posts.”

  Pinch closed his eyes and felt the abandonment of sleep flowing over him. “Excellent, my friend. Now, get out of here and see that the others are ready, then be back. The meeting’s tonight. Be ready to follow me when we leave. Don’t fail me on this one, Sprite. I’ve got the feeling that this one could be my neck. Do you sense it?”

  “Aye, Pinch. The fur of my feet’s quivering,” drifted in the halfling’s reply, and then there was darkness.

  The scrape of stone on stone alerted Pinch and he sprang out of bed, still fully dressed, with the expectation of constables pouring through the door. There were no constables, no bed in a cheap stew, no laughter of harlots down the hall, only the warm night air that played over the thick tapestries. In the moment it took to establish his whereabouts, the secret door in the bedroom wall swung open and a sword waveringly emerged from the darkness. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait, Cleedis entered the room, brushing dust and cobwebs from his robes.

  “Good,” he noted, “you’re ready. Let’s go.”

  “Go through there?”

  The chamberlain scowled. “Of course. Did you expect me to traipse you through the halls for everyone to see? People would wonder what we were about at such an hour.”

  If all was right, Sprite was waiting outside for just that signal. Going through the tunnels meant bypassing the halfling and that meant his entire plan was for naught.

  “This seems like an ill idea to me. There’s things down there, trying to kill me. I say we use the door—I can lose anyone who tries to follow us.”

  The old man was adamant. “The tunnels—Manferic waits for us there.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Nothing will harm us.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Pinch challenged in feigned anger, his voice rising in hopes that Sprite would hear it through the door. To increase the odds, he strode into the sitting room as if in a restless fury.

  “Because I am the chamberlain of the Famisso household, right hand of Manferic the Great, and nothing down there will dare attack me or anyone carrying the privy seal of our lord,” Cleedis blustered in exasperation. “Now, end this nonsense and let us go—unless all this is just to hide your own failure. You do have the regalia, don’t you?”

  The clear suspicion in the lord’s voice warned Pinch not to press the issue any further. “Very well,” he practically bellowed in his false temper, “we’ll go by the tunnels!” Even as he did, he prayed to Mask and any other god who cared to g
rant Sprite particularly sharp ears.

  Gathering up his goods—his well-used short sword, a fine black cloak, and the velvet sack that held his treasure—Pinch followed his guide.

  “Close it,” the chamberlain grunted as he set a taper to the lantern he’d brought with him. The rogue seized the handle and pulled the heavy wall shut. Just as it was about to close, he slipped the hem of his cloak into the gap so that it dangled like a pennon on the other side. Though it pained him to ruin such fine clothes, Pinch slashed the fabric away before Cleedis was done. He was barely able to manage it, forgetting until that moment that he had only one good hand.

  When the sputtering lantern was finally lit, sparks rising from its wick, the old general led the way. The cobweb shadows quivered like veins against the crumbling stone walls. The lantern gave barely enough light to see the way by.

  “You could have brought a wand or something enchanted with daylight,” Pinch sourly observed.

  “Lord Manferic disapproves,” was all the explanation he got.

  “Of course, I forgot. He’s dead.”

  They ventured farther into the tunnels and Pinch could not say if these were routes he’d traveled before. Unsure that Sprite could follow their dust-marred trail, Pinch set to slicing off more bits of his cloak, scraps of cloth for the halfling to follow, assuming he made it this far. He was barely able to grip the fabric in his crippled hand, and the task threatened to be noisy. To cover his actions, he became unusually talkative. “Why do you serve him, Cleedis? He’s dead and it’s better he was gone.”

  “Lord Manferic is a great man.”

  “He’s not a man anymore, and he was more monster than man when he was alive.”

  “He did what he must to protect Ankhapur from its enemies. The city is strong because of him.”

  “What about me, Cleedis? What reason was there to hide my past from me?” Pinch shot back. “How did I threaten the city?”