King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  The lead actor conferred with his fellow cast members, and after a few minutes, they produced a set of wooden swords from their chest of costumes and props.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” trumpeted the lead. “The Kings of Theater proudly present the epic tragedy Philinest and the Manchun!” He stepped away from the rest of the cast, and spread his arms. “Banned by Her Royal Highness, Queen Ageda of the Southern Reaches, studied by scholars across the world, sought by audiences everywhere …”

  He lowered his voice and leaned in, conspiratorially. “Come, my friends, and enter a different world. A world of intrigue and betrayal, of great battles both on the battlefield and”—he winked—“in the bedroom. Prepare yourself to be awed and amazed.”

  He returned to his troop and put on a lemon-shaped hat. He picked up a wooden sword.

  “My friends, I give you, Philinest and the Manchun!”

  “I love this play,” the King confided to Willow.

  This play didn’t make much sense to her, either. Mainly, it involved skull-numbingly dull monologues punctuated with theatric and very improbable fights with the wooden swords. The only element that impressed Willow was how one of the offstage cast members clanged two pieces of metal together whenever the wooden swords collided, making the battles sound surprisingly realistic.

  The King watched the play for a few minutes, but then his attention drifted elsewhere. He raised an eyebrow at Willow, but if that was intended to be a message, it was lost on her. He took her arm and wandered about on the second floor with her.

  He smiled and practically danced between the other partygoers, leading Willow through the crowd as though she were his dance partner. Oddly enough, he was sufficiently coordinated that he almost made her look good despite a lack of any effort on her own part.

  Now he headed for the landing and the stairs, and they climbed toward the third and final landing. Behind them, the clanging and shouting of the actors continued with, if not intelligibility, at least increased enthusiasm.

  Four orange-robed sentries guarded the landing, which had been cordoned off with a velvet rope. At the landing on the other end of the floor were another four. The guard closest to him held up a hand.

  The King stopped abruptly, and Willow almost ran into him.

  “Sorry, sir,” the guard said, “this floor’s off limits to guests.”

  “Hmph,” the King said. He turned his back on the guard and faced Willow.

  “We seem to have taken a wrong turn,” he said, and passed her her rapier, hilt-first.

  Willow was so astonished as to be unable to speak. She lowered the rapier, and concealed as much of it as she could with her mantle. Yet surely, the guards would see it within moments.

  The King returned his attention to the guards and bowed.

  “I apologize for intruding like this. I can imagine how irritating a constant stream of visitors can be: trampling over everything and leaving not a single inch of privacy.”

  He bowed a second time.

  “My wife and I shall depart now.” He smiled. “I have the highest regard for your job, you know.”

  He bowed a third time, only this time something seemed to catch his eye. “Gentlemen, why is that man dangling from that railing?”

  The sentry turned to look. The King dived up the steps and between the middle two sentries. He landed on his belly, grabbed the backs of one leg of each sentry, and yanked. They both fell, face-first, down the stairs.

  “What the—?” said the remaining sentry on the right.

  That was all he managed to say before Willow drove the point of her rapier into his solar plexus. She sidestepped him as he started to fall. She sliced diagonally up the last sentry’s chest, and then stabbed him in the throat.

  Both were dead before the first hit the stairs.

  The first sentry Willow had stabbed began to roll down the stairs. She grabbed his foot and yanked on it, flattening the guard out so that he lay flat on his belly on the stairs.

  The King rose to his feet and now had his own orange rapier, naked in his hand.

  “Are you insane, Your Majesty?” Willow hissed.

  “No,” he said, “or at least I don’t think so. Would I know if I were? Anyway, a little exercise will do you good after downing so much alcohol tonight.”

  He was mocking her; she was sure of it. She tried to think of a retort, but realized she’d be better off scanning the surroundings for more threats. Meanwhile, the King searched among the velvet curtains along the wall by the stairs, pulling them this way and that.

  Across the landing, the remaining four sentries started shouting and two of them ran toward the King and Willow. No matter how loudly they shouted, however, it seemed as though the actors on the floor below kept shouting louder.

  When the first of the new batch of sentries came within reach, Willow ducked and sliced the tendons that ran across his knees. His legs buckled and he fell, wailing in agony. She pivoted slightly, and lunged at the second sentry, her rapier sliding under his ribcage and into his heart. Then she bashed the first one in the head with the hilt. The first head-bash left him clutching at his head, shrieking, but a quick follow-up smash sent him to the floor unconscious.

  By now, the remaining two guards had arrived. She faked a lunge to the one on the left. He raised his sword in panicked defense, but she abruptly cut at the other guard, severing one of the arteries in his neck. She withdrew a step, leading in the first guard, and then lunged once more—this time for real.

  He died within moments, clutching his chest.

  She returned to the King’s side. He was still fumbling with the velvet curtains.

  “What in the Seven Hells are you looking for?” she said, eyes scanning for their next foe.

  “This!” said the King. He opened a door hidden behind the velvet curtains. He ducked between the curtains and walked inside.

  Willow followed as quickly as she could, fumbling at the velvet, which was surprisingly difficult to grip. When she got through, she saw that they were in a long hallway. Two more sentries, this time wearing leather armor, approached the King warily.

  He dismissed them with a wave. “My wife has all the pertinent documents,” he said. “Talk to her.”

  He strode forward as though he had every right to be there. It was only when one of the pair saw Willow’s bloodied blade that the guard shouted and the pair of them drew their weapons.

  The first cut at her wildly. She ducked, sidestepped, and sliced the artery under his arm. As he fell to his knees dying, the second of the pair thrust at her. She parried, then sliced his forehead. Blood dripped into his eyes; when he raised his hand to wipe them clean, she sidestepped again and caught him in the throat. He fell to his side, his pale hands feebly trying to staunch the bleeding.

  The King marched down the hall, peeking into each room as he passed. Willow ran after him.

  “Wait, Your Majesty!” she shouted.

  At last, the King reached a locked door. He tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He dropped to his knees and withdrew a pair of thick metal lockpicks from his bag. He inserted first one pick into the lock, and then the other. Within seconds, he had opened the lock.

  Willow was by his side as he opened the door. It led to an enormous game room featuring a large billiards table and some tabletop games surrounded by small, leather-bound chairs. The room had a peaceful, almost sleepy feel to it, seeming incongruous when compared to the fight it had taken to get there.

  Standing upon a short ladder beside the billiards table was Four Fingers. He held a cue in his tiny hands. The nasty runt was gawking at the sudden intrusion, his eyes narrowing with hostility.

  Four Fingers stood a little less than four feet tall, and despite his name, had all ten of his fingers. He was young—perhaps nineteen or twenty—and had shown himself to be a criminal prodigy. He wore finery suited better for a lord or other nobility—a cloth-of-gold tunic and scintillating jewels on several of his fingers.

&nb
sp; “You must be Four Fingers,” the King said entering the room with his arms spread wide. He untied his mask, and his face was all smiles. “How do you do? I’m the King of Bryanae.”

  Chapter 50

  “No, you’re not the King,” Four Fingers said and then turned his attention back to his billiards. His posture was relaxed, as though two armed foes hadn’t just broken into his game room. “You’re something far more intriguing.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the King said, tilting his head slightly. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced about, as though expecting an ambush

  “Hold on a moment,” Four Fingers said. He eased the cue back and then struck the cue ball lightly. It rolled just past an orange ball and fell into a pocket.

  “Dammit!” Four Fingers exclaimed and tossed his cue onto the table. He climbed down the stool and wheeled it to another location across the table.

  “That looks like an enjoyable game,” the King said. “What’s it called?”

  “It’s called ‘D’Arbignal is wasting the precious moments he has until the guards arrive by asking stupid questions,’ ” Four Fingers snapped. “That’s what it’s fucking called.”

  D’Arbignal? It seemed as though everyone knew the King’s background. She may as well have saved the five gold pieces she had wasted paying the Viper to find all this out.

  “You know, I think I’ve played that game before,” the King said. “I’m surprisingly good at it,” he said, a tight smile on his face. He pointed Flame in Four Fingers’s general direction. He added, “If you know of me, then you ought to know to keep a civil tongue in your mouth. I might just cut it out.”

  Four Fingers waved his hand dismissively.

  “Nah,” he said. “You’re all talk. I know all about you. Sure, you swing a blade with the swiftness of a lightning bolt and blah, blah, blah, but you’re one of those lovable rogues with a heart of gold.”

  He said the words in a pleasant voice, and his smile seemed genuine, too, but his eyes were cold and hard.

  The King chuckled, his own expression bordering on manic again.

  “I sold the heart of gold and used the money to buy these boots.”

  “Nice boots,” Four Fingers said, nodding.

  “Why, thank you,” the King said with a bow. “Now do tell me again about how I’m all talk?”

  The door burst open. Two guards brandishing longswords rushed in. Willow sprang forward and impaled the first guard through the lung. As she did, she caught a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see that the King had killed the other guard just as quickly. Their eyes met; he winked.

  Willow’s estimation of the King increased. She poked her head out the door and looked down the hallway. More guards were gathering at the other end. She tried to catch the King’s eye, to gesture for him to hurry up, but his attention was focused on his diminutive nemesis.

  “So anyway,” the King said conversationally, poking the tip of his orange rapier against Four Fingers’s chest, “you were saying something about me being all talk…”

  “Yes,” Four Fingers said. He feigned a yawn. “You won’t harm me because as you can plainly see, I’m unarmed, and the Great D’Arbignal would never hurt an unarmed opponent. Honor, reputation, and all that bullshit.”

  The King took a step backward and his smile faltered.

  “I confess I never thought about it that way,” he admitted.

  Four Fingers waved his hand dismissively. “So you’ve got nothing. Tell me what you want and just go away.”

  D’Arbignal glanced around the room, and then his smile returned. He poked his rapier at Four Fingers again.

  “Will you stop this already?” Four Fingers tried to brush the blade away, but the King evaded his hand and pressed against the dwarf’s chest.

  “Your Majesty,” Willow said, “you’d better conclude your business. A sizeable force is gathering down the hall.”

  The King raised his rapier to Four Fingers’s throat. He pressed just enough to elicit a single drop of blood. Four Finger’s face paled.

  “You see, I’ve considered what you said,” the King said, “and have come to the conclusion that you’re not unarmed.”

  “And how did you reach that brilliant conclusion?”

  “I was admiring those lovely dark drapes over there,” the King said, gesturing with his free hand.

  “And?”

  “And either you had them custom designed with enormous feet, or that’s Gianelli hiding behind them.”

  Willow snapped her gaze to the drapes, her eyes wide. There was indeed a pair of boots protruding from under them.

  The drapes flung open, and the Chancellor stormed towards the two men at the billiards table. His face was dark red and his mouth was a tight line. He held in his right hand one of those giant hand-axes of which he was so fond.

  Willow leapt from the door and sprinted to intercept the Chancellor before he could harm the King.

  “Tell him to stop,” the King said pushing his rapier further into Four Fingers’s neck.

  Four Fingers raised a hand.

  “Restrain yourself, Lord Chancellor … for just a moment. Let’s hear what he has to say.” To the King, he added: “So, D’Arbignal, explain to me: in what way am I armed?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I mean, how on Earth did you manage to become a crime lord: nepotism?”

  It certainly wasn’t obvious to Willow, and the Chancellor seemed incapacitated with fury. Four Fingers merely raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

  “You own the Chancellor,” the King said, as though explaining to a child.

  The Chancellor raised his axe, but quickly lowered it again after a withering glance from Four Fingers.

  “Yes, I do,” Four Fingers admitted. “How is that a weapon?”

  “Well, for one, you could order him to attack me. That’s a weapon right there.” The King circled around Four Fingers until both the Chancellor and Willow were in his line of sight. “But more importantly, you own the Chancellor and the Chancellor owns Willow.”

  Willow froze. The King was right. Despite her intentions to protect the King, she was the Chancellor’s weapon.

  The Chancellor took a sudden step toward the King. The King readjusted his position, but Four Fingers took advantage of his distraction to jump back out of the range of the King’s rapier.

  “Kill him!” the Chancellor shouted to Willow.

  Oh, shit, Willow thought before she charged the King.

  Chapter 51

  Willow changed her angle of approach so she and the Chancellor flanked the King. The Chancellor roared and charged, brandishing his axe with murder in his eyes.

  “Yikes!” the King cried. He rolled backward over the billiards table. He grabbed at Four Fingers, but the dwarf dove under the table.

  Willow circled the pool table to engage the King. She faked a high lunge before cutting down toward the inside of the King’s thigh. He parried and riposted; she responded with equal speed.

  She barely contained her astonishment. Nobody survived an exchange with her. Nobody.

  When she saw him pretend to be a bad fencer, she knew he was good, but even she hadn’t expected this. Just who in the Seven Hells was this D’Arbignal? And why had she never heard of him before?

  The Chancellor swung his axe at the King’s shoulder blade, but the King rolled back over the billiards table. He snatched one of the balls and threw it. It struck the giant squarely in the forehead with a loud thunk. The Chancellor’s knees buckled.

  Four Fingers sprinted for the door as Willow rounded the table and headed for the King.

  The King back-stepped to keep his distance. He flicked the wrist of his off hand; a knife appeared there as if by magic. Willow dodged, expecting him to throw it at her. Instead, he spun and flung it at Four Fingers.

  Willow seized at the opportunity and thrust at his heart, but he dove to the floor before her blade reached him. Instead, she caught only a piece of his mantle, and her rapier moment
arily became entangled.

  With one continuous motion, the King whipped off his mantle and threw it over Willow’s head. He failed to trap her. Instead, she caught a section of the cloth with her free hand and flung it off, disentangling her rapier with a shake. She whirled, seeking her opponent.

  The King was running at Four Fingers, who crawled toward the door, trailing blood. The King’s knife protruded from the back of his knee.

  Willow charged, considering the King’s right kidney as a target.

  The King stepped over Four Fingers, pivoted, and put the point of his blade against Four Fingers’s throat once more.

  “Tell the Chancellor to order Willow to stop!” he shouted.

  Willow launched a barrage of thrusts and cuts at the King, who parried them with astonishing skill. Again, he followed up with a riposte, which she parried.

  He switched his rapier to his left hand. She tried to take advantage of the lapse, but he was too quick. His riposte almost caught her, tearing a strip from her bodice.

  "Sorry about that, Captain," he said, not even sounding winded.

  “I never liked it anyway, Your Majesty,” she said.

  She realized to her great surprise that she was enjoying herself. Whoever this man was, he was a master fencer: perhaps even her equal. It had been so long since anybody had offered her a challenge!

  The King flicked his right hand, and another knife appeared. He knelt onto Four Finger’s back and pressed the point of the knife against his kidney. Willow arched an eyebrow.

  “Do it!” the King ordered.

  “Don’t stop,” Four Fingers shouted. “Kill h—!”

  The King stabbed Four Fingers just below the kidney. The dwarf screamed in agony and what seemed to Willow to be indignation, too.

  Willow sidestepped to try to flank the King, but he changed his position to mount the dwarf’s back.

  “Last warning!” the King shouted and stabbed Four Fingers again. “Tell him to call her off! Next time, I leave you dying in agony over the next two hours.”