King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  “Sorry,” came the King’s voice, “we’re closed for renovations. Please try us again in the fall.”

  She knocked again. Across the street, a third man had joined the other two.

  Inside, she heard more conversation, but the tempo had increased. She heard more money slide across the counter. From the tones of voices, business was concluding.

  She was about to knock again when the door opened and the King emerged. By now there were four men waiting across the street. Willow pointed them out to the King.

  “Trouble,” she said.

  “You call that trouble?” The King drew his orange rapier, which he held in a low guard position. Then to her surprise, he stepped past her and started walking toward the men as if he were approaching old friends.

  She drew her own rapier as she reached for his cloak, but he slipped past her.

  “Four of them and two of us,” the King said, his voice resonant and overly loud on the otherwise silent street. “Hardly seems fair. You’ll have to find some others, Willow. These four are mine.”

  She wasn’t sure the King could really fight as well as he was implying, but he certainly walked as if he thought he could. He approached the men with such conviction that suddenly, they decided that maybe it would be more fun loitering somewhere else. They dispersed into the darkness.

  Willow arched an eyebrow. It was an impressive bluff. At least, she hoped it had had been a bluff.

  She caught up to him and said, “I think Your Majesty has done enough sightseeing for tonight. We should return to the castle before your absence is noticed.”

  “Quite right,” he said, nodding. “And besides, I have accomplished what I set out to do.”

  “And that would be—?”

  He grinned broadly.

  “Why, I learned that there is going to be a terrific party in just over three weeks! For what other possible reason would I want to visit a pawnbroker in the dead of night in the middle of a crime-ridden den of iniquity? Honestly, you need to use that lovely head of yours more, Willow!”

  Chapter 37

  Willow snuck the King back into the Castle through the Edwin Gate, so named because two centuries earlier, Prince Edwin had been ambushed and murdered leaving through what he thought was a secret exit from the castle. It wasn’t, and so he died, but that was before Willow’s time.

  The Gate had been sealed and eventually forgotten. It wasn’t as though you couldn’t see the Gate if you walked around the perimeter of the castle; it was just that nobody noticed a disused, rusted, and locked door, especially when there were more exciting things to see in the vicinity such as the tower immediate above and the King’s Standard flying from an outward jutting flagpole.

  It was disused and locked, yes, but when Willow had been made Captain of the Guard, she had sought and then found the key to that door. She had personally loosened the rust on the hinges and the lock mechanism herself, and had oiled them to keep them functioning smoothly. At a casual glance, it looked like you’d need a ballista to open the door; in reality, it opened quite smoothly if you had the key.

  The King grinned when she produced the key from under her shirt. Her cloak had mostly concealed the twine that held it around her neck, so no doubt he had not seen it.

  She led him through a series of corridors that she had memorized long ago. Their path led them gradually upward, but there were only slopes and crude stairs made out of loose rocks, and no real staircases. It was a clumsy, demanding trip, and to his credit, the King did not complain once.

  They exited the passage into one of the less-frequently used kitchens. From there, they progressed gradually up and deeper into the Castle.

  When they took the last turn into the corridor that held the King’s Chambers, they nearly collided with the Royal Mage.

  “Yikes!” exclaimed the King as Willow jumped back, her rapier drawn. She noted with some approval that the King had drawn his own orange-hued rapier.

  The black scarecrow peered down at them with a malignant glee that was almost masked by a feigned look of concern. He glanced back and forth between the two blades, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

  “Is Your Majesty all right?” Fyrelord said, bowing deeply. “I had hoped to share a kettle of tea. Imagine my dismay when I discovered that not only had he gone missing again, but that Captain Willow had also vanished.”

  “Have no fear, good mage,” the King said with a careless smile. He sheathed his rapier; she did not. “Willow was giving me instruction in the fine art of Pjeriat cheek-singing. My singing voice is not the best with music with which I’m familiar, so you can only imagine how horrible I sounded at cheek-singing. In fact, if the stories are to be believed, there has been a mass exodus of cats at all the city gates!”

  “I can imagine a great many things, Your Majesty,” Fyrelord said. “You and the lovely female elf, away from prying eyes. There are so many things I can imagine one getting up to.”

  The insinuation hung in the air like a noxious cloud. Willow’s hand reflexively tightened on the hilt of her rapier.

  “You should watch what you say, Fyrelord,” she said between her teeth. “If I were to interpret that as a slight against my honor, I would be within my rights to demand satisfaction. I don’t recall you having any particular aptitude with any weapon.”

  The mage snorted.

  “I have no need for weapons, as you must know, and you would not survive such a duel.” He added, his tone lighter: “How fortunate for the both of us, then, that no such slight was intended.”

  The King breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, and mopped his brow.

  “What a relief!” he said. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, mage, but you’re not exactly a tiny fellow. What are you, seven feet? Thereabouts? Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to dig a seven-by-four–foot hole without attracting attention?”

  “The work would go quicker with two diggers,” Willow grumbled. Fyrelord was beginning to become more than a mere annoyance.

  “That’s true,” the King said. “That’s very true. Anyway, it’s very late, Fyrelord (or rather, very early); was there something you wanted other than tea?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Fyrelord said. “I wanted to inform you that there’s a dangerous criminal on the loose. His name is D’Arbignal, and his reputation is most foul. I’ve taken the liberty of sending some agents to collect more information on this man. I hope to have it within a day or two.”

  “That’s it?” the King said, showing no reaction to the name. His eyebrows lowered and his jaw jutted. “You disturb me at this time of night just to let me know that there might be a dangerous criminal somewhere in this vicinity? I think you may be overworking yourself, Fyrelord. Perhaps you need a break.”

  “His Majesty’s safety is my primary concern.” Fyrelord’s eyes gleamed. “You can be sure I will keep abreast of anything that might be a threat.”

  “Consider me warned, Fyrelord.” He placed a hand on the mage’s shoulder. “But please set your mind at rest. I have the formidable Captain Willow as my personal guard. I’m sure any attempt on my life would end badly for the intended assailant.”

  Willow remained motionless, her hand on her rapier’s hilt. Fyrelord glanced from her to the King and back. Then he bowed.

  “As Your Majesty says,” he said, and departed.

  Chapter 38

  It was nearly dawn when Willow returned to her office. She noted immediately that the door was unlocked. She wasn’t especially concerned, but she drew her rapier anyway.

  She entered the building with caution.

  “Nice little office,” the Viper said, sitting at her temporary desk. He had his feet up. “Soldiering’s quite a little racket, innit?”

  As Willow walked past the Viper, she whacked his calf with the flat of her rapier. He yelped, dropping his feet to the floor, and stared at her with murder in his eyes.

  “I assume you have the information I was seeking,” she said.
<
br />   “Too right I do,” the Viper said. He pointed to his skull. “It’s all in here. Now, do you have my … uh … honorarium?”

  She was quickly tiring of all the scheming men surrounding her of late. She sat on one of the spare chairs, and began cleaning her rapier.

  “Let’s make this simple,” she said. “If the information’s good, I’ll give you five pieces of gold.”

  The Viper’s eyes widened.

  “Sl’urth!” he said. She could tell he was already caressing the coins in his mind. “And what if the information’s not to your liking?”

  She continued cleaning her blade.

  “Then I’ll deal with the man who broke into my office instead.”

  The Viper’s stared at her for a moment, the murderous look returning. Then abruptly, he laughed.

  “Fair ‘nuff,” he said, slapping his thigh. “Fair ‘nuff!”

  “Good. So what do you have for me?”

  The Viper leaned forward over her desk. His voice dropped to little more than a conspiratorial whisper.

  “This D’Arbignal and Gianelli of yours, they’re real bad customers. It weren’t hard digging up the dirt if you know where’s to look, which I do.”

  “Bad customers how?”

  “The one, Gianelli, he’s a big brute of a man. Real mean bastard. You look inside his heart, you find a dusty dry spot instead o’ blood.”

  That would be the Chancellor. Lovely.

  “What’s he done that makes him so bad?” she said.

  The Viper whistled. “For one, he’s wanted for murder in two territories. In one o’ them, word has it he killed a bloke with his bare hands.”

  Willow believed she was successful in keeping the shock off her face, but it had been close. A murderer!

  “What else?” she said evenly.

  “Other than the murders and the many near-murders, the rest is mainly theft and robbery. Burgles houses, robs travelers, ambushes couriers, and so on. You know, honest work.”

  Oh, this was getting better and better. How the hell had this man become Chancellor?

  “And the other one?” she said, almost afraid to ask.

  “Not quite as bad as Gianelli,” the Viper said, “but he tries his best. He’s got a long list o’ of crimes following him about.”

  The Viper started counting off on his fingers. “Let’s see, he was sentenced to death in a town near Kericho for impersonating a member of the clergy—oh, and someone who looked like Gianelli bailed him out, and he’s wanted for theft in nearly every village from here to Cerendahl. Our boy just loves the long con.”

  Willow grimaced. The long con, eh? Was that what he was up to in Bryanae? What could he hope to get out of such a con?

  She pictured the two of them in his bedchambers, him dropping his robe to stand naked before her. The memory of his lean body made her face grow warm. Had that whole scene been staged as part of some feeble seduction attempt to throw her off guard?

  “They also say he’s got an eye for the ladies,” the Viper added.

  Willow’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  “If it’s got tits, he’s had a go with her.” The Viper glanced at her chest and added, “You might be safe, though, luv.”

  She ignored the insult, though this particular one was getting tiresome. “In what way does he ‘have a go at her?’”

  “He’s charming, inn’he? And he loves the ladies: young, old, you name it. Rumor has it there’s a circus freak in Venucha who’s carrying his child, and hoo, brother, if you saw her, you’d think she were walking upside-down and backward, if you catch my drift. Some people are just born good-looking, like lover-boy, and some just catch the opposite side of the coin toss. Her face, it looked like someone tossed the coin at it. And the minting hammers, too. And the forge!

  “He called himself the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Real modest-like, you know?” The Viper shrugged. “Used to have an act in that circus. He fenced and acrobatted for 'em. Everybody loved him … especially the ladies.”

  The greatest swordsman in the world? The King certainly didn’t carry himself like one. But then Willow recalled how he had held his rapier Flame; every single thing about his stance and his grip had been wrong, and nobody could make all those mistakes at once. Well, maybe Marcus could, but aside from him … perhaps this man did have some talent.

  For just a fleeting moment, Willow entertained the fantasy of testing this man’s skill with the blade. Of course, it would be treason to draw a weapon on a member of the Royal Family, a hanging offense, yet the fantasy appealed to her.

  She rolled her hand, indicating that the Viper should continue.

  “There’s this seamstress in Cerendahl,” he said. “The frail’s starving to death in the streets, and then she goes on a romantic honeymoon-like with our boy. When she returns, she’s as wealthy as can be. Owns her own tailoring business, with staff ‘n everything. Kinda makes you wonder what she had to do to earn all that money, don’t it?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “This … ‘frail’ of whom you speak: her name wouldn’t happen to be Shara, would it?”

  The Viper’s eyes widened. “How’d’ya know that? Do you have other spies? I hope you aren’t expecting me to share my wages.”

  She waved away the question. When he had arrived, the King had worn a shirt with a maker’s label for a Shara of Cerendahl. Of course, it had to be the same one the Viper had discovered.

  But what was his relationship to this seamstress, and how had the Chancellor known about her?

  “I assume you have names, places, and dates to support this information?”

  “Of course,” the Viper said, pointing to his head again. “In ‘ere.”

  Willow glanced at her rapier.

  “Assuming you don’t want me to cut the information out of ‘there’, you should start writing it down, assuming you can write. When you’re done, you’ll have your gold.”

  “’course I can write,” the Viper chirped. “’nuther satisfied customer.”

  “Satisfied enough. If you’re willing to share with the Rat, I might continue to employ your services from time-to-time.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for the Rat to come back. Rumor has it your pal D’Arbignal was the man what killed him. Isn’t life funny sometimes, what with all the coincidences?”

  He smiled with a mouth full of missing and rotting teeth. She pretended not to notice.

  A murderer on the throne, a murderer for the Chancellor, a sex-crazed queen, and the gods-only-knew-what for the Royal Mage.

  Terrific. Just terrific.

  She did have to admit, though: at least it wasn’t boring.

  Chapter 39

  The next time the King stole away from his chambers, Willow did not make her presence known. Call it curiosity, or call it background investigation, but Willow wanted to know more about this strange man.

  She took it as given that he would try to sneak out again. Responsibility seemed to chafe him; the more restrictive the guard, the more he’d try to elude them. She decided to see what he’d do if she relaxed the leash a little.

  She stood guard outside the King’s chambers, standing still as a statue. She was an old hand at guard duty. She listened carefully for activity within, and she was certain she heard him approaching the door in his bare feet. No doubt looking for an opportunity to sneak out.

  Be patient, Your Majesty, she thought. You’ll get your chance.

  Marcus was scheduled to replace her at midnight, but she held little hope that he’d be on time. Just so long as he showed up at all.

  When Marcus finally turned up, it was closer to one in the morning. She reprimanded him, of course, but in this particular case, the reprimand was for the King’s benefit, not Marcus’s.

  Abashed, Marcus took up the post and swore several times that he’d remain awake until he was relieved at four. She knew he wouldn’t, which was the point.

  She walked away via her regular route until she was c
omfortable she was out of the King’s hearing. Then she slipped down a poorly lit stone hall and removed her boots. The cold of the floor bit at her soles through her socks, but she ignored it. The floors weren’t cold enough to do any lasting damage to her feet, so it was merely discomfort. She was an old hand at dealing with pain and discomfort.

  She returned, coming from another direction, and then waited around the corner. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Marcus hadn’t fallen asleep in the ten whole minutes she’d been gone, though from the looks of him, it wouldn’t be long. His eyelids drooped and his chin kept dropping to his chest.

  Within minutes, he was asleep. On his feet.

  Willow sighed.

  When Marcus began to snore, she pinched the bridge of her nose to try to stave off the headache all her teeth grinding was starting to cause.

  The door to the King’s chambers creaked open, but Willow resisted the urge to peek. She stayed out of sight around the corner, prepared to follow or retreat depending on where the King went.

  She heard him chuckle softly before his footsteps retreated into the room. A minute later, she heard heavy, staggered footfalls and the occasional scrape of wood against stone.

  The scraping intensified for a moment, and then ceased. Willow heard the sound of fabric rustling, wood creaking, and then more chuckling. Then at last, she heard the King’s footsteps as he walked down the corridor, away from her.

  She gave him a lead of half a minute or so, then turned into the corridor and stopped dead.

  Marcus was sitting in a large wooden chair, fast asleep. He hadn’t just fallen asleep; he had slept through the King dragging out a chair for him, and then let the King sit him down without awakening.

  Willow shook her head. Marcus’s incompetence was truly impressive.

  She left Marcus sleeping soundly, and quietly padded off after the King. She knew he was clever, that he treated everything as a game, so she was careful not to move too quickly, for fear of turning a corner to find him waiting for her, grinning.

  She followed down the dark corridor where it met with a stairwell. He was nowhere to be seen. She looked up the stairs and then down and saw nobody.