King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  The King smiled but did do not as she asked. Instead, he leaned toward her. She bowed her head so he could whisper in her ear.

  “Now, what I need you to do is—hey, watch it!” he shouted at a man who had stumbled into him.

  “Sorry, guv,” the man slurred. He was a slight man, dressed in a long, tattered overcoat and a brown shirt that probably had once been white. “Dint see ya.”

  “With a beauty like this beside me,” the King said, indicating Willow, “I don’t blame you. No offense taken, sir!”

  The man shrugged and staggered off without a word in the other direction. Willow observed him for a few moments; there was something about the way he moved that suggested he wasn’t quite as drunk as he appeared.

  “Sorry,” the King said, “what I was going to say is that if anybody talks to you, I need you to act like you’re really, really stupid.”

  “Why?”

  Another apparent drunkard lunged toward the King, but Willow pulled the King out of harm’s way, and the drunkard continued without so much as a backward glance.

  “So you don’t appear to be what you are. For instance, you can’t pull me out of danger like that; it’s a dead giveaway. Let the pickpockets collide with me if they want. I’m not carrying any money, so the joke’s on them!”

  Her estimation of the King increased slightly. She was glad that he wasn’t quite as oblivious as he appeared.

  “So what do I do?” she said.

  “Like I said, just act stupid. If you’re not sure how to answer a question, just pretend not to understand.”

  “And how do I do that?” she said. Deceit was not her strong suit.

  “What do you mean?” he said, his expression innocent.

  “I mean, how do I pretend not to—” Then she got it. “Oh. Very amusing, Your Majesty.”

  The King winced, and then clenched his teeth.

  “Please don’t call me that.” He quickly glanced about to see if anyone had heard. “You are familiar with the concept of disguise, are you not?”

  “I am, si—” She cut herself off before she could say “sir”. Dammit, this was difficult!

  They reached the foot of the stairs and the King led them up toward the sentries.

  Willow planned what to do if things turned hostile. She’d chop the sentry in front of her in the neck, collapsing his trachea and suffocating him. Then she’d spin and kick the other one hard and high above his center of balance, sending him toppling over the railing to the ground below. That ought to buy them enough time to get down the stairs and for the King to retrieve her rapier for her.

  There was one couple ahead of them in line. The man handed over his invitation. His masked female escort looked about, her eyes shifty, and never resting.

  “Welcome, Slim the Enforcer,” the sentry said to him.

  “Why couldn’t I have a name like that?” the King said under his breath. “King Slim the Enforcer!”

  The shifty-eyed woman glanced once at him, looked him over, and then permitted herself to be led into the house.

  “Invitation?” the other sentry said to the King. Willow readied to attack.

  The King handed what looked to be an official invitation to the sentry, who looked it over.

  “Welcome, Mr. Second Story,” the sentry said, and moved out of their way.

  Willow did a double take. “What?”

  The King laughed indulgently.

  “Try not to think too hard, dearie,” he said in a surprisingly good accent. In fact, he sounded almost like the idiotically named Viper. “You’ll get lines all along your face.”

  He swatted her bottom, and without conscious thought, she grabbed his hand and started applying a wristlock. At the last moment, she released it and tried to look indignant instead of outraged.

  Once inside, she said, “Do that again, and you’ll lose your hand.”

  “It would be worth it,” he said. He winked. “And I have a spare.”

  She counted silently to ten.

  “Where did you get that invitation?” she said.

  “As I said earlier, I wasn’t carrying anything of value. That pickpocket, on the other hand, was. I bribed our way onto the list, but we still needed the invitations, for which we have Mr. Second Story to thank.” He grinned broadly and rubbed his hands together with glee. “Ooh, I wish I could see his face when he tries to come in!”

  Chapter 48

  The doors opened onto an enormous marble hall. Twin glittering staircases went up the sides, seeming to hold the various floors like shelves. Dangling down the center like a sparkling necklace was a magnificent chandelier, whose hundreds of candles bathed the building in a cheerful light.

  Willow found it irritating.

  Musicians and entertainers walked among the guests, enthralling them with witty songs or sleights of hand. One such entertainer passed Willow with a lit torch, and as she watched, he extinguished it in his mouth. Willow could not help but compare his act to the King’s earlier and find the entertainer wanting.

  As they cleared the initial crowd of revelers clustered by the entranceway, Willow caught sight of a banner depicting a coat-of-arms hanging high on the far wall. It depicted a pair of mythological beasts, a gryphon and a faun, standing upon a green compartment and supporting a blue shield. Emblazoned on the shield was a rearing stag, its antlers full and wide.

  The design seemed familiar to Willow and it nagged at it her. Where had she seen that design before? She remembered making a conscious decision to memorize that very image, but when—?

  Her jaw dropped, but she quickly closed it to disguise her astonishment.

  Marcus! He had worn a brooch fashioned after that exact design. She had speculated that someone influential had been guiding Marcus’s career through the guard; he clearly didn’t have the wits to make it on his own. Now she knew who his patron was.

  Private Marcus of the King’s Guard and Four Fingers were related.

  Her mind reeled at the ramifications. She might be able to use him as a spy into Four Fingers’s organization. Or was he being used to spy on hers? Perhaps, the youth didn’t even know he was being used.

  Wait a moment. Four Fingers had been helping Marcus’s career … by way of the Chancellor! But, that meant—

  “If you were a crime lord,” the King mused, “which floor would you be on?”

  Willow stood bolt upright at that. She grabbed the King by his arm and half-led, half-dragged him to a comparatively quiet nook.

  “You said nothing about speaking to Four Fingers himself,” she hissed.

  “And if I had?” His look was angelic.

  “I would have quashed the idea immediately!”

  The King smiled. “There you go.”

  She shoved him against the wall.

  “Ow!” the King complained.

  She leaned in close to him. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to, and honestly, I don’t care. You say you’re the King; fine, you’re the King. You want to engage in politics and court intrigue? Fine, that’s your business. That’s a game that the wealthy play with each other, and you’re welcome to it.

  “But I’m a soldier, and my mission is to keep you alive. Coming to this masquerade of yours was a bad idea in the first place, but the Chanc—but those who worry about your safety felt that you needed to get out of the Castle. I didn’t agree with the decision, but I’m obeying my orders.”

  “But hear me,” she said, prodding the King’s chest with her finger. “My primary objective is to keep you alive, and nobody, not even you, is going to sabotage my mission. Are we clear on that?”

  The King blinked at her, momentarily speechless. It was a good look for him.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Yes,” he said, his tone more restrained. “We’re clear.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “But wow, has anybody ever told you how beautiful you are when you bark orders lik
e that? Your nostrils flare majestically and the red in your cheeks make you look like a furious goddess!”

  Willow ground her teeth but said nothing.

  “And what did I say about grinding your teeth?” he chided.

  Chapter 49

  They wandered among the other partygoers. Members of conversing groups ceaselessly glanced around to ensure they went unheard. The conversation paused whenever anyone did. Willow could make out almost nothing of what was being said. She knew it wouldn’t be secrets of harvesting crops.

  If only this weren't a masquerade! What an opportunity it would have been to identify the faces of those in Four Fingers’s circles, to see who was in his thrall. Of course, if it hadn’t been a masquerade, they would have easily recognized her, so she supposed it would have been a very short scouting mission indeed. Not even she could take on every criminal in the building!

  The King smiled and bowed as he passed people.

  “Madam,” he said to some grotesquely fat woman, “your hair looks lovely pleated like that!” The woman beamed at the compliment.

  “Sir,” he said to a passing man with a thick beard and a silver mask. He removed his hat. “You move through the crowd with the agility of a fish through rocky waters. I doff my hat to you.”

  Willow lacked this gift for small talk. She didn't know what to say. Talk about the weather? Discuss the secrets of planting crops? All she knew was how to kill people. She doubted any of the guests would enjoy hearing which arteries are the easiest to rupture by arrow from a distance of one hundred yards.

  Once more, she thought of the yellow-headed Puppet Willow, and the way the children had laughed at it, had laughed at her. Dammit, she was more than just a killing machine!

  She saw a young blonde walking in her general direction and Willow told her, “You have nice breasts. Oh, and your quadriceps appear very well-developed.”

  The blonde looked astonished, and then abruptly headed off in another direction. The King snorted, and then laughed outright.

  Willow ground her teeth, but the King placed his arm around her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry!” he said, pulling her close to him. “I couldn’t help it. But that was wrong of me. Here you were making an effort to fit in as I asked—something I know is not part of your usual set of duties—and I go and mock you with cruel laughter. I’m so sorry, milady.”

  His apology seemed genuine, but who could tell with him? In any case, it didn’t matter. She was a soldier, first and foremost. Just like Puppet Willow.

  They ascended the stairs to the first landing, and the King procured two more glasses of wine. Willow hadn’t touched her first glass; she put it down on the railing overlooking the entry hall, and accepted the second. The King sipped at his and once more raised his eyebrows with pleasure.

  “He’s got an excellent collection, I’ll give him that.”

  “He can afford it,” Willow said. “He owns a piece of everything in this city: theft, prostitution, murder-for-hire. A lot of percentages, which add up. What you’re tasting is human suffering.”

  The King grimaced and put his glass down next to hers. He sighed, crestfallen. “Ah," he said. “It has a bit of an aftertaste.”

  There were two orange-robed sentries posted at each end of the floor by the staircases, their eyes scanning the crowd. It had to be a nerve-wracking experience for them: being responsible for security in a room of mask-wearing criminals. Willow had only one life to protect—two if she counted her own—while the sentries had to protect the entire party.

  The King glanced her untouched glass and his eyes narrowed. He leaned in.

  “You have to drink a little,” he said. “We need to blend in.”

  She stared at him stone-faced.

  “Besides, it is really good wine, suffering or no! Live a little!” He laughed, and his teeth were very white. He added, “There’s more to life than just killing people, you know.”

  She contemplated the glass of blood-colored liquid with more than a little trepidation. In folklore, elves were reputed to have a legendary tolerance for alcohol: in reality, Willow had almost none.

  There’s more to life than just killing people.

  She thought again of the puppet show, where the puppeteer had portrayed her as a brainless animal, killing friend and foe alike. She considered her heretofore boring, oh so predictable life. Was she merely the Chancellor’s murderous puppet?

  The King was looking at her expectantly.

  Oh, why not?

  “Go on,” he was saying. “It’s just wine. Four Fingers is not about to pois—”

  She quaffed the entire glass in a four gulps. The wine tasted bitter and burned at her throat.

  “—on us?” The King stared at her in astonishment. “That was … impressive. You don’t do things by half-measures, do you?”

  Willow made a deliberate show of placing the empty glass upside-down onto a small wooden table, as if to say, there. Are you happy now?

  “All you had to do was take a sip,” he said, his eyes wide.

  She shrugged. It was too late to do anything about it now.

  Her recklessness surprised her. She didn’t ordinarily do stupid things like that. Was the King’s devil-may-care manner rubbing off on her?

  Once more, she entertained the fantasy of pitting her skill with the blade against his. This so-called “Greatest Swordsman in the World”—wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were actually true?

  The King led her up to the second landing, which again, was watched by four sentries. In the center of the landing, a small troupe of actors was performing some play involving seduction and murder. She found it dull and not very well acted, but the King seemed mesmerized.

  She was beginning to feel slightly unsteady on her feet. She placed her hand on the King’s shoulder for balance. He started at the unexpected contact, then grinned.

  He leaned in and whispered, “Why, Captain Willow, are you drunk?”

  Willow wasn’t sure. She had never gotten drunk from a single glass of wine before. But then, she didn’t drink very often, and she had quaffed it awfully quickly …

  “Wait here,” the King said, and walked off into the crowd. He flagged down a servant carrying a platter of small meats and breads. He started filling a small china plate with a heaping portion.

  “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” a man said as he stepped into her line of sight. She was momentarily astonished; were her senses so muddied that someone could sneak up on her?

  The man was tall, and his posture was erect. His dark hair had streaks of grey in it.

  He gazed at her through a hand-held mask in the shape of a lion’s face.

  “Where do I know you from?” he said, scratching his chin.

  Suddenly, Willow recognized the voice and the bearing: Magistrate Snyde! Oh no!

  She fumbled for something to say, but couldn’t find any appropriate words. Agonizing seconds passed.

  Magistrate Snyde lips curled in distaste. “Are you some kind of idiot? Is that it? Brought here as an amusement for the other guests?”

  Idiot?! How dare he! She stared at that aristocratic nose of his and considered how lovely it would feel to break it with a precisely placed punch.

  “Here you are, dear,” the King was saying as he staggered through the crowd. He held the plate balanced precariously on one arm raised over his head, and held his wine glass in his other “I’ve got your foo—”

  He bumped into one of the other guests and caromed into Snyde, stepping on the back of the magistrate’s knee, and sending the pompous ass to the carpet.

  “Sir!” the King exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! Allow me to … yikes!”

  The plate started to wobble over Magistrate Snyde’s head. All Snyde could do was look at it in horror.

  The King reached up to steady the plate with his other hand. He stopped the plate from toppling, but in the process spilled his red wine onto the magistrate’s face and chest.

  “Pox be upon
me!” the King said, all wide-eyed and innocent. He reached for Snyde, presumably to wipe off the wine with his bare hand. The plate above Snyde’s head began to wobble again. “Here, let me …”

  Snyde clambered to his feet sputtering and then retreated three steps. He backed into another guest who cursed at him. Snyde eased away from the guest, hands raised, and then sneered at the King.

  “You did that on purpose, you ass!”

  “Sir, you wound me,” the King said, bringing his hand to is heart. “Have you any idea how much I liked that wine?”

  The magistrate’s face was red by now, and he kept opening and closing his mouth as if about to speak.

  Abruptly, he spun on his heels and walked off into the crowd. The King grinned and handed the plate, now steady as a parapet, over to Willow.

  Her head reeled. The incident with Snyde had happened so fast … and the King had come to her defense!

  “That was a very important man you offended,” Willow said, and silently berated herself. What she should have said was “thank you.”

  “More important than the King?” the King said.

  Willow tilted her head. She couldn’t think of a response to that.

  “Here,” the King said, indicating the plate. It contained copious amounts of food. “Eat all of this—every last bite—and pretend to enjoy the play. I know this play. You’ve got a good half hour before it’s done. That should buy you some time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  She ate the food as quickly as she could. Most of it turned out to be very palatable.

  The play, which had halted briefly during the confrontation, now resumed. She tried her best to feign interest, but it was dreadfully dull. It had something to do with an unfaithful wife turned murderess, but Willow couldn’t bring herself to care about it enough to figure out more. After a while, her balance began to return, but she left her hand on the King’s shoulder just in case.

  When the actors (finally!) finished, they were met with only mild applause, yet the King clapped and cheered them with great gusto, drawing curious looks from the other partygoers. He approached the lead actor and carried on a whispered conversation. The actor nodded, and the king passed him something shiny, possibly a gold coin.