“We have an important matter requiring urgent attention!”
“The king made it categorically clear he is not to be disturbed. While Master Witcher had, as I recall, orders to leave the palace. What, then, is he still doing here?”
“I’ll explain that to the king. Admit us!”
Ferrant pushed the herald away and shoved the seneschal. Geralt followed him. But they were still only able to reach the chamber’s threshold, stuck behind several courtiers gathered there. Their further progress was thwarted by bruisers in leather jerkins who pushed them against the wall on the order of the herald. They were pretty rough, but Geralt followed the instigator’s example and gave up any resistance.
The king was standing on a low stool. A tailor with pins in his mouth was adjusting the royal breeches. Beside the king stood the marshal of the court and somebody dressed in black, probably the notary.
“Right after the wedding ceremony,” said Belohun, “I shall announce that my successor will be the son who my little wedded wife will bear me today. That measure ought to assure me her favour and submission, hee, hee. It will also give me a little time and peace. About twenty years will pass before the pup reaches an age when he’ll start scheming.
“But if I so wish I shall call it all off and designate somebody quite different as my successor.” The king grimaced and winked at the marshal of the court. “After all, it is a morganatic marriage and issue from such unions don’t inherit titles, do they? And who’s capable of predicting how long I’ll stand her? For are there no other prettier and younger wenches in the world? It’ll be necessary to draw up the appropriate documents, a prenuptial agreement or something. Hope for the best, expect the worst, hee, hee, hee.”
The chamber man handed the king a tray piled up with jewels.
“Take it away.” Belohun grimaced. “I won’t be bedecking myself with trinkets like some fop or arriviste. I’ll only put this on. It’s a gift from my betrothed. Small, but tasteful. A medallion with the crest of my country, it behoves me to wear such a coat of arms. They are her words: the country’s crest on my chest, the country’s good in my heart.”
Some time passed before Geralt, standing pressed against the wall, put two and two together.
The cat, patting the medallion with its paw. The golden medallion on a chain. The blue enamel, the dolphin. D’or, dauphin naiant d’azur, lorré, peantré, oreillé, barbé et crêté de gueules.
It was too late to react. He didn’t even manage to cry out or give a warning. He saw the golden chain suddenly contract and tighten around the king’s neck like a garrotte. Belohun flushed and opened his mouth, but was incapable of taking a breath or screaming. He grabbed his neck with both hands, struggling to tear the medallion off or at least jam his fingers under the chain. He couldn’t, as the chain had cut deeply into his flesh. The king fell from the stool, and danced, bumping into the tailor. The tailor staggered and choked; he’d probably swallowed his pins. He fell against the notary and they both went over. Meanwhile, Belohun turned blue, eyes goggling, tumbled onto the floor, kicked out with his legs a few times and tensed up. And stopped moving.
“Help! The king has collapsed!”
“The physician!” called the marshal of the court. “Summon the physician!”
“Ye Gods! What has happened? What’s happened to the king?”
“The physician! Quickly!”
Ferrant de Lettenhove put his hands to his brow. His face wore a strange expression. The expression of a man who was slowly beginning to understand.
The king was laid down on a chaise longue. The physician took a long time examining him. Although close by, Geralt wasn’t allowed through, couldn’t watch. In spite of that, he knew that the chain had already loosened before the physician came running.
“Apoplexy,” the physician pronounced, straightening up. “Brought on by airlessness. Bad vapours entered the body and poisoned the humours. The unceasing storms raising the heat of the blood are to blame. Science is powerless, I can do nothing. Our good and gracious king is dead. He has departed this life.”
The marshal of the court gave a cry, burying his face in his hands. The herald seized his beret in both hands. A courtier sobbed. Others knelt down.
The corridor and vestibule abruptly resounded with the echo of heavy steps. In the doorway appeared a giant, a fellow measuring a good seven feet tall. In the uniform of a guardsman, but a senior one. The giant was accompanied by men in headscarves and earrings.
“Gentlemen, you are to proceed to the throne room. At once,” said the giant amid the silence.
“What throne room?” retorted the marshal of the court, irritably. “And why? Do you realise, Lord de Santis, what has just happened? What misfortune has occurred? You don’t understand—”
“To the throne room. By order of the king.”
“The king is dead!”
“Long live the king. To the throne room, please. Everybody. At once.”
About a dozen men were gathered in the throne room, beneath the maritime plafond with the tritons, mermaids and hippocampi. Some were wearing colourful scarves, some sailor’s caps with ribbons. They were all weather-beaten and had earrings.
Mercenaries. It wasn’t difficult to guess. The crew of the frigate Acherontia.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed man with a prominent nose was sitting on the throne on a dais. He was also weather-beaten. But he didn’t have an earring.
Beside him sat Ildiko Breckl on an extra chair, still in her snow-white gown and still bedecked in diamonds. The—until recently—royal fiancée and betrothed was staring at the dark-haired man with an expression of adoration. For some time, Geralt had been wondering how events would proceed and guessing at their causes, had been connecting facts and putting two and two together. Now, though, at that moment someone with even very limited intellect would have seen and understood that Ildiko Breckl and the dark-haired man knew each other. And very well, at that. And had for quite some time.
“Prince Viraxas, Prince of Kerack, a moment ago still the heir to the throne and crown, now the King of Kerack, the rightful ruler of the country,” announced the giant, de Santis, in a booming baritone.
The marshal of the court was the first to bow and then go down on one knee. After him, the herald paid homage. The seneschals, bowing low, followed suit. The last person to bow was Ferrant de Lettenhove.
“Your Royal Highness.”
“‘Your Highness’ will do for the moment,” corrected Viraxas. “I shall be entitled to style myself in full after the coronation. Which, indeed, we shall not delay. The sooner, the better. Am I right, marshal?”
It was very quiet. The stomach of one of the courtiers could be heard rumbling.
“My late lamented father is dead,” said Viraxas. “He has joined his revered forebears. Both of my younger brothers, unsurprisingly, have been accused of treason. The trial will be conducted in keeping with the dead king’s will, both brothers will turn out to be guilty and will leave Kerack forever on the strength of the court’s verdict. Aboard the frigate Acherontia, hired by me … and my powerful friends and patrons. The dead king, I happen to know, didn’t leave a valid will and testament or any official directives regarding the succession. I would have respected the king’s will had there been any such directives. But there are none. By right of inheritance, the crown thus belongs to me. Does anyone of the people gathered here wish to oppose that?”
No one among the people gathered there did. Everybody present was sufficiently endowed with good sense and the instinct of self-preservation.
“So please begin the preparations for the coronation. May the people within whose jurisdiction it falls busy themselves with it. The coronation will be combined with my nuptials. For I have decided to revive the ancient custom of the kings of Kerack, a law enacted centuries ago. Which declares that if the groom dies before his wedding, the fiancée will wed his closest unmarried relative.”
Ildiko Breckl—as was clear from her radiant
expression—was prepared to submit to the ancient custom that very minute. Others of those present remained quiet, undoubtedly trying to recall who had enacted the law, when and on what occasion. And how that custom could have been enacted centuries ago, since the kingdom of Kerack had existed for less than a hundred years. But the brows of the courtiers wrinkled with mental effort then quickly became smooth. Unanimously, they came to the correct conclusion. That although the coronation hadn’t taken place yet, and although he was only His Highness, Viraxas was already essentially king, and the king is always right.
“Get out of here, Witcher,” whispered Ferrant de Lettenhove, pushing Geralt’s sword into his hand. “Take Julian away. Vanish, both of you. You haven’t seen anything, haven’t heard anything. Let no one link you with all this.”
“I realise—” Viraxas swept his gaze over the assembled company “—and understand that for some of you gathered here the situation may seem astonishing. That for some of you the changes are occurring too unexpectedly and without warning, and events are moving too fast. Nor can I rule out that for some of the assembled company things are not happening as they intended and the state of affairs is not to their liking. Colonel de Santis immediately threw in his lot on the right side and swore loyalty to me. I expect the same from everybody gathered here.
“Let us begin with the faithful servants of my late lamented father.” He indicated them with a nod. “As well as the executors of the orders of my brother, who made an attempt on my father’s life. We shall start with the royal instigator, Lord Ferrant de Lettenhove.”
The instigator bowed.
“You will submit to an investigation,” warned Viraxas. “Which will reveal what role you played in the princes’ plot. The plot was a fiasco, which thus qualifies the plotters as inept. I may forgive errors but not ineptitude. Not when it concerns the instigator, the guardian of law. But that will be later, for we shall begin with essential matters. Come closer, Ferrant. We wish you to demonstrate and prove whom you serve. We desire you to pay due homage to us. To kneel at the foot of the throne. And kiss our royal hand.”
The instigator moved obediently towards the dais.
“Get out of here,” Ferrant managed to whisper again. “Vanish as quickly as you can, Witcher.”
The party in the grounds was in full swing.
Lytta Neyd immediately noticed blood on Geralt’s shirtsleeve. Mozaïk also noticed and—unlike Lytta—went pale.
Dandelion grabbed two goblets from the tray of a passing page and downed one after the other in single draughts. He grabbed two more and offered them to the ladies. They declined. Dandelion drank one and gave the other reluctantly to Geralt. Coral stared at the Witcher with narrowed eyes, clearly tense.
“What’s happening?”
“You’ll soon find out.”
The bell in the belfry began to toll. It tolled so ominously, so gloomily and so mournfully, that the guests fell silent.
The marshal of the court and the herald stepped onto the scaffold-like platform.
“Fraught with regret and distress,” the marshal said into the silence, “I must inform you, honourable guests, that King Belohun the First, our beloved, good and gracious ruler, has suddenly passed away. Struck down by the stern hand of fate, he has departed this life. But the kings of Kerack do not die! The king is dead, long live the king! Long live His Royal Highness, King Viraxas! The firstborn son of the deceased king, the rightful heir to the throne and the crown! King Viraxas the First! Let us proclaim it three times: Long live the king! Long live the king! Long live the king!”
A choir of sycophants, toadies and arse-kissers took up the cry. The marshal of the court quietened them with a gesture.
“King Viraxas is plunged in mourning, as is the entire court. The banquet has been abandoned and the guests are asked to leave the palace and grounds. The king plans his own nuptials soon and then the banquet will be repeated. So as not to waste the vittals, the king has ordered for them to be taken to the city and placed in the town square. The vittals will also be shared with the folk of Palmyra. A time of happiness and prosperity is coming to Kerack!”
“My, my,” announced Coral, straightening her hair. “There is much truth in the claim that the death of the bridegroom is capable of seriously disrupting a wedding celebration. Belohun was not without his flaws, but there have been worse kings. May he rest in peace and may the earth rest lightly on him. Let’s go from here. In any case, it’s begun to be boring. And since it’s a beautiful day, let’s take a walk along the terraces and gaze at the sea. Poet, be so kind as to proffer your arm to my pupil. I’ll walk with Geralt. For he has something to tell me, methinks.”
It was still early afternoon. It was hard to believe that so much had happened in such a short time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Hey! Look!” Dandelion said suddenly. “A rat!”
Geralt didn’t react. He knew the poet and knew he tended to be afraid of any old thing or become enraptured by any old thing and sought out sensation where there was nothing worthy of the name.
“A rat!” said Dandelion, not giving up. “Oh, another! A third! A fourth! Bloody hell! Geralt, look.”
Geralt sighed and looked.
The foot of the cliff beneath the terrace was teeming with rats. The ground between Palmyra and the hill was alive, moving, undulating and squeaking. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of rodents were fleeing from the harbour area and river mouth and scurrying uphill, along the palisade, onto the hill and into the trees. Other passers-by also noticed the phenomenon, and cries of amazement and fright rang out on all sides.
“The rats are fleeing Palmyra and the harbour because they’re frightened!” pronounced Dandelion. “I know what’s happened. A ship full of rat-catchers has probably tied up to the quay.”
No one felt like commenting. Geralt wiped the sweat from his eyelids. The heat was oppressive, and the hot air made breathing difficult. He looked up at the sky, which was clear, quite cloudless.
“There’s a storm coming,” Lytta said, articulating what he had thought himself. “A tremendous storm. The rats can sense it. And I can too. I can feel it in the air.”
I can too, thought the Witcher.
“A storm,” Coral repeated. “There’s a storm coming from the sea.”
“What do you mean a storm?” Dandelion fanned himself with his bonnet. “Not at all! The weather’s as pretty as a picture, the sky’s pristine, without the faintest zephyr. Pity, we could do with a breath of wind in this heat. A sea breeze …”
The wind began to blow before he finished his sentence. A faint breeze bore the smell of the sea. It was refreshing, and gave pleasant relief. And quickly intensified. Pennants on masts—not long before hanging limply and pitifully—moved and fluttered.
The sky over the horizon grew dark. The wind increased. The faint soughing became a swoosh, the swoosh a whistle.
The pennants on the masts fluttered and flapped violently. Weathervanes on roofs and towers creaked, tin chimney pots grated and clanged. Shutters banged. Clouds of dust swirled up.
Dandelion seized his bonnet in both hands at the last moment, preventing it from being blown away.
Mozaïk caught her dress, a sudden gust lifting up the chiffon almost to her hips. Before she could bring the billowing material under control, Geralt had an enjoyable view of her legs. She saw him looking. And held his gaze.
“A storm …” Coral had to turn away in order to speak. The wind was blowing so hard it drowned out her words. “A storm! There’s a storm coming!”
“Ye gods!” cried Dandelion, who didn’t believe in any. “Ye gods! What’s happening? Is it the end of the world?”
The sky darkened quickly. And the horizon went from deep blue to black.
The wind grew stronger, whistling hellishly.
The sea was rough in the anchorage beyond the headland, the waves were crashing against the breakwater, white foam was splashing. The crashing of the waves intensified. It be
came as dark as night.
There was a commotion among the ships lying at anchor. Several—including the post clipper Echo and the Novigradian schooner Pandora Parvi—hurriedly hoisted their sails, ready to make for open sea. The rest of the ships dropped theirs and remained at anchor. Geralt remembered some of them, he had observed them from the terrace of Coral’s villa. Alke, a cog from Cidaris. Fuchsia, he couldn’t recall where it was from. And galleons: Pride of Cintra under a flag with a blue cross. The three-master Vertigo from Lan Exeter. The Redanian Albatross: a hundred and twenty feet from prow to stern. And several others. Including the frigate Acherontia under black sails.
The wind wasn’t whistling now. It was howling. Geralt saw the first thatched roof from the Palmyra district fly up and disintegrate in mid-air. A second followed soon after. A third. And a fourth. And the wind was growing ever stronger. The flapping of pennants became a constant clatter, shutters banged, tiles and gutters hailed down, chimneys tumbled, flowerpots smashed on the cobbles. The bell in the belfry, set in motion by the gale, began to toll with an intermittent, anxious, ominous sound.
And the gale blew, blew more and more strongly. And drove bigger and bigger waves towards the shore. The crashing of the waves intensified, becoming louder and louder. It soon stopped being just a crash. It was a monotonous and dull booming, like the thudding of some infernal machine. The waves grew, rollers topped by white foam crashed onto the shore. The ground was trembling beneath people’s feet. The gale howled.
Echo and Pandora Parvi were unable to flee. They returned to the harbour and dropped anchor.
The awestruck and terrified cries of the people gathered on terraces sounded louder and louder. Outstretched arms pointed at the sea.
The sea was one great wave. A colossal wall of water. Apparently rising to the height of the galleons’ masts.
Coral grabbed the Witcher by the arm. She said something, or rather tried to speak, but the gale gagged her effectively.
“—way! Geralt! We have to get away from here!”
Season of Storms Page 31
