King of Bryanae (Bryanae Series Book 3)

by Jeffrey Getzin

  The Square continued to fill with petitioners. Willow spotted a handful of cutpurses threading their way through the crowd, but she was most concerned about would-be assassins.

  “Your Majesty!” an old woman cried, a petition clutched in her gnarled hands.

  “Your Majesty!” called a young man whose left arm ended in a stump at the elbow.

  By now, dozens of petitioners had them surrounded with only the gap of a rapier’s length between the King and the crowd. Willow thought she caught a glimpse of a hooded man weaving through the crowd, heading inexorably towards the King.

  “Back off!” she shouted, and shoved a black-bearded man away with her foot. She sliced the air in front of another’s face. She glanced back toward the castle, hoping to spot more guards. She couldn’t see through the mob of people.

  The King still didn’t seem to recognize the danger he was in. He kept trying to answer each petitioner, but they just pushed in front of each other, desperate for help.

  “Stop shoving,” he said. “You’ll never get heard that way!”

  “Your Majesty,” Marcus said, “what do we do?”

  “GUARDS!” Willow shouted as loudly as she could. “THE KING IS BESIEGED!”

  The King shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a siege …”

  Someone reached for the King, his open hand grasping. Willow swatted it with the flat of her rapier, and as the man withdrew his hand, she punched him in the nose with her gloved fist. Blood streamed down his face, and he staggered away, clutching his nose.

  The crowd continued to press in. There was only so much she could do to hold them off without resorting to lethal force. And once she went down that path, there would be no turning back.

  She thought she caught another glance of the hooded man in the crowd, closer this time. She tried to track him but lost him among all the faces. Another hand reached for the King; she kicked its owner in the groin. She swirled her cloak around her as she circled the King, trying to startle the crowd into yielding some space.

  “This is starting to get slightly unpleasant,” the King said, his voice strained. He nimbly dodged a man who lunged at him, and as the man passed, the King pulled the assailant’s hat over his eyes and kicked him in the buttocks. The man staggered blindly into the crowd.

  Willow sighed. Now it was starting to get slightly unpleasant. The man was an idiot.

  Marcus had dropped to his knees, tears raining from his eyes. He was sobbing and calling for his mother.

  “Sorry,” the King said, evading grasping hands, “autographs are only for the paying customers. The next showing is at dusk. Get your seats early!”

  Then someone caught hold of the back of the King’s collar, dragging him into the crowd. The King dropped to one knee and threw his attacker over his shoulder onto the pavement, but the moment he was free of one grip, two other hands had latched onto him.

  “Yikes!” he cried.

  “ENOUGH!” Willow shouted, mustering as much authority into her voice as she could.

  Her rapier darted and slashed, slicing superficial cuts into those foolish enough to be near the King.

  The King finally seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. He brandished his silver-headed cane, batting at the grasping hands like a fencer parrying thrusts.

  The mood of the crowd was getting uglier as the less-determined petitioners gave way to the more aggressive members of the mob.

  “I’m warning you,” the King said, his eyes narrowing. “Back away, or I’ll teach you a lesson in civility you won’t soon forget!”

  Willow slashed at another hand, sending its owner staggering back, howling in pain. She searched the crowd for the hooded man, but couldn’t see him. She spun quickly, trying to locate him.

  “You leave me little choice,” the King said, his tone equal parts regret and disgust. With the flick of his wrist, he sent the “skin” of his cane flying to the ground, revealing a gleaming metal blade that had been concealed within.

  “I knew it!” blurted Willow.

  Suddenly, the crowd began to part, and a contingent of Elite battled their way in with cudgels and tall silver shields. Townsfolk fell to the sides, stunned and bleeding.

  “Your Majesty,” Willow shouted, “this way! Quickly!”

  She grabbed the King by his shirt and pushed him into the opening the Elite had created. Quickly, they surrounded him and moved as a unit back toward the castle.

  Willow needed to move quickly or else be surrounded without any support. The Elite's primary job was to protect the King, and rightly so. Saving Marcus and herself were only secondary objectives. She yanked Marcus to his feet by his collar and shoved him after the King. Then she put her back to the withdrawing soldiers and fought a rear guard action: slicing and, in extreme cases, thrusting with her rapier to keep the mob at bay.

  More Elite met them as they approached the entrance to the castle, and confronted with sufficient numbers, the mob at last began to disperse. Willow led the King and Marcus back into safety.

  The King seemed a bit shaken, but was otherwise handling the turn of events surprisingly well. He was scarcely breathing heavily.

  “Well, that was a first for me,” he said. “Granted, it’s always like that in my imagination, but that’s the first time it ever really happened!”

  “Your Majesty can’t go wandering through the streets of Bryanae without a sufficient guard presence!” Willow said, her voice full of reproach. Moreover, the real King Eric would have known that.

  “Oh, sure,” the King said, “you say that now, but mere minutes ago, you were babbling about how eager you were to see the Jeweler’s District. I tried to tell you it was impractical. If only you had listened!”

  Chapter 35

  “Just what in the Hells were you thinking?” the Queen demanded, wagging her finger in the King’s face. She had fumed silently as Willow escorted the couple to the King’s chambers. She exploded the instant Willow had shut the door.

  “Well,” the King said, “now that you mention—”

  “Nothing, that’s what! Whatever you did to regain your youth has scrambled your brains.” She flounced around the drawing room, gesticulating with her hands. “It’s a miracle you weren’t drawn into quarters by that rabble. You know what they’re like.”

  “Actually, I was—”

  “Be quiet!” the Queen commanded, and he closed his mouth with an audible clack. He held a single finger aloft as though still making his point. “Honestly, you’re even more of a fool now than you were when you were old and senile. ‘King Eric the Strong’ indeed. ‘King Eric the Idiot’ would be more apt.

  “And you,” she said, turning her wrath upon Willow. “If it were any other soldier, I’d be surprised at his incompetence: letting the King out with so light an escort. From you, however, I suppose it’s to be expected.”

  Willow gazed back at her without expression. She had anticipated the Queen’s tantrum and subsequent accusations. They would pass; the Queen had no lasting convictions, only transient temperaments.

  “Why they let you in the Guard in the first place is beyond me. Women don’t belong in the Guard, and that goes doubly for creatures such as you.”

  Willow raised her eyebrows but said nothing, remaining at attention. That had been especially pathetic as insults went.

  “Darling, you’re being unf—” the King started, but the Queen rounded on him again.

  “You dare to defend this strumpet against me! You think I don’t know about your trysts? If it’s got a skirt—or in this case pointed ears and a flat chest—you’ll try to mount it.”

  “If you think that’s impressive,” the King said with a hopeful smile, “you should see the dismount!”

  The Queen prodded his chest with her finger. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you? Well, as of this minute, I’m doubling your guard. No, tripling it! Until I feel I can trust you to act like royalty and not like the village idiot with amnesia—”

  “Surely
city idiot, at least,” he said sotto voce to Willow. The Queen did not appear amused.

  “—I’ll have to have you watched like you were a child, escorted wherever you go. Do you understand me?”

  “Um … yes?” he said. He added, tentatively, “Dear?”

  The Queen nodded, her rage exhausted. Her demeanor softened, and she ran her hand through the King’s hair.

  “But let’s not quarrel, my dear. It’s beneath us. You know I have only the deepest love for you, my darling.”

  “Um… yes?”

  The Queen ran her hand down the King’s chest, and took his hand in hers.

  “In fact, let us go now and make up.” Her voice took on a singsong quality. “I don’t want any silly disagreement to stand between us. Our marriage bed can withstand any difficulties. Come, my darling!”

  With that, she led her husband from the drawing room. He looked like a condemned man walking to the gallows. He flashed Willow a look that seemed to beg for rescue.

  “Oh good,” the King said as he passed. “The marriage bed. Again.”

  Willow waited until the King and Queen were out of sight. Once she was unobserved, she permitted herself one of her very rare smiles.

  When the night was at its darkest, and the moon had hidden behind the clouds, one of the windows of the King’s bedchamber creaked open and the end of a braided rope spilled out and dropped most of the way to the ground.

  The King’s head poked out from the window. He took a quick look around, glancing both up and down, and then withdrew back into the room. A few minutes later, he looked out again … and then climbed onto the sill. He wore dark clothes and a mantel with its hood down. He hooked the dangling rope with his foot and flipped it up to his free hand. He gave the rope one good yank to check its fastness within the room; the rope did not yield any slack.

  He hopped from the window, dangling from the rope for a moment before rappelling down the castle wall, his soft shoes making almost no noise

  The rope ended about eight feet from the ground. The King released his grip and fell the remaining distance. He rolled when he reached the ground and then stood into a barely-visible crouch. He froze, casting his eyes around him. Then he sprinted to a copse of darkwood trees and vanished into their shadows.

  After about a minute, he dashed from the one copse to another, where he hid behind a large tree trunk. His dark clothes made him almost invisible.

  “You left your sword cane’s sheath in the Square,” Willow said, emerging behind him.

  The King yelped, and bounded up the tree and onto one of the larger branches. He peered down at her.

  “His Majesty seems nervous of late,” she observed.

  “Not at all. Your beauty is such that it must be admired from all angles, even above.”

  She extended her hand, in which she held his sword cane’s sheath.

  The corners of his mouth turned down in annoyance and he hopped to the ground. He withdrew his gleaming sword cane from that amazing infinite bag of his, accepted the sheath from Willow, and sheathed the cane.

  “What are His Majesty’s intentions this fine, dark, and nearly moonless night?” she said.

  A huge smile burst onto the King’s face.

  “I thought we’d visit some of Bryanae’s more scenic attractions,” he said. “Long have I heard of this ‘Jeweler’s District’ as a center of culture and commerce in Bryanae, yet never until today had I considered paying it a visit!”

  “Still?”

  “Why discard an otherwise perfect plan?”

  Willow stared at him for a few moments. She was beginning to have serious doubts about the man’s sanity.

  She shrugged.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Chapter 36

  The Jeweler’s District was a depressing mixture of shanties and neglected houses slowly deteriorating. Improvised shelters grew like weeds between the buildings, resulting in a maze of alleys and paths. The area smelled like damp, rotting wood, though it hadn’t rained in days.

  “So where does His Majesty wish to start his tour?” Willow said. She looked up and down the street, her hand at her rapier, ready to draw. “A brothel? Perhaps a gambling hall?”

  The King lounged against the side of a boarded-up shop, his dark hood and clothes making him hard to see in the shadowy street. He had opted to wear that orange rapier of his this evening; he wore it strapped properly to his left hip. Willow was curious to see if he knew how to use the weapon.

  The King glanced up at her with surprise in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

  “That comes dangerously close to a joke, Willow,” the King said, pondering. “If I didn’t know better, I’d start to think that maybe there’s a personality hiding behind that military veneer.”

  Willow’s eyes hardened. “It’s not a veneer.”

  “If you say so.” The King shrugged, still smiling. “I was thinking we might start with some pawn shops. You know, take in some of the local color. Perhaps find a hidden treasure, newly added to an inventory.”

  Willow frowned. In the Jeweler’s District, pawnshops were among the riskiest destinations. Nearly all of them were fronts for something else: illegal gambling, poisons, assassins … and worse.

  “I suppose I’d be wasting my breath reminding His Majesty that he has a small army of personal shoppers that would be delighted to acquire any items he desires …”

  “But that lacks the personal touch, Willow.” The King’s smile was fearless. It was practically manic. “Oh sure, I could have them acquire said items on my behalf, but without the accompanying adventure, they would be just things. It is the experience of acquisition, the thrust and parry of negotiation, that makes ownership so enjoyable!”

  He mimed a fencing match to illustrate his point.

  Willow arched an eyebrow. She was no idiot; the King had ulterior motives for putting himself at such risk, but he seemed disinclined to share them with her. So be it.

  She raised her hood and stepped out onto the street. It had originally been paved with cobblestones, but most of the stones were missing.

  Things looked to be about as safe as they were going to get. She gestured for the King to follow. He chuckled as he followed in her wake, an amused smile on his face.

  She wondered at his apparent lack of fear. Was it bravado or stupidity? Or, perhaps, genuine insanity?

  Willow threaded through the alleys mostly from memory. The ever-changing shanties had altered the paths since the last time she had been here on patrol, a few weeks ago; she had to backtrack twice.

  At last, she reached the shop owned by a man who called himself Honest James. She had, of course, long known that no one who was truly honest felt compelled to adopt the word as part of his name. He was, however, one of the least dangerous residents in this district, and he had a healthy fear of her. He’d have to do.

  “I don’t know if anyone’s home,” she said, reaching for the door.

  The King placed a hand on her shoulder to stay her, and she was astonished to feel a mild thrill of arousal at the touch, which she found infuriating under the circumstances. She picked his hand off her shoulder as though it were a dead rat and made a show of letting it go.

  Instead of taking offense, he smiled broadly, accentuating the slight laugh lines around his eyes and making him appear a little older. He gestured to the shop with a nod.

  “If no one is home, this isn’t the kind of shop I’m looking for.”

  “And what kind of shop would that be?” she said.

  He grinned, but didn’t answer.

  Again, she moved to knock but he shook his head.

  “I’ll need a few minutes of privacy,” he said.

  She stood between him and the door, her arms akimbo. “Out of the question.”

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  “No. I go in with you, or you don’t go in at all.”

  He shook his head again. He fished out a purse from a hidden pocket in his cloak. “I go in alo
ne, or I throw this purse full of coins onto the street, shout “ah, it’s splendid being filthy rich!” and it’ll be just like this morning in the Square … only with thieves and murderers instead of petitioners.”

  The gleam in his eyes was off-putting. He not only seemed unafraid, he appeared actually to revel in the danger.

  Willow weighed her options. They shouldn’t be here at all. His entering a thieves den unescorted was unacceptable. However, he seemed determined, and there wasn’t much she could do to stop him short of physically restraining him.

  “Five minutes,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Seven minutes and a kiss,” he said.

  Again, she felt a small thrill, and loathed herself for it.

  “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “Ten minutes.”

  The King laughed and flashed her a wink. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered without knocking.

  Willow pressed her ear against the door, listening for any sign that His Majesty with in danger. She gripped her rapier, prepared to kick in the door should it prove necessary.

  She heard a man’s surprised shout, and then the King spoke in a calm voice. When the man spoke again, he had lowered his voice to a whisper barely audible from where Willow stood.

  Across the street, a disreputable-looking figure in rags shambled past a shack, turned, and then shambled back. He leaned against the wall of the shack and was most determinedly not looking in her direction. His arms were at his sides, but one of his hands rapped a soft rhythm against the wall of the shack, seemingly absent-mindedly.

  Just minding his own business. In the Jeweler’s District. At night. Alone.

  Sure.

  Inside, she heard whispered conversation, then the sound of coins landing on a counter and then being swept off. More conversation. She had lost track of how long the King had been in there, but she figured that as long as they were conversing instead of shouting, he was probably not in trouble. Yet.

  Another man in rags joined the first one in leaning against the building and not looking at Willow. Willow discreetly knocked on the door.