Wait a minute. Threat of death might very well do it. Not Barthold's, of course, but suppose Broderick made clear his intention of slaughtering as many of the townsfolk as possible. Boiling oil had its uses, of course.
It wouldn't play for long, would it? But it should be sufficient to disperse the crowd; and something might always turn up.
If he could sell the statue, he'd have enough money to raise an army. And through the crystal, he could contact mercenary captains. A sufficiently large force could crush all opposition; after enough folk decorated gibbets, resistance should cease. Barthold and Bertram could disappear in all the uproar, leaving him legitimate heir. All it took, Broderick thought, was fortitude and sufficient ruthlessness.
He'd win this one still, he decided. After all, he'd never lost yet.
He hurtled, two at a time, down the tower's circular stairs, yanking himself around the curve by the railing.
The army, if it may be dignified by such a term, of Sir Bertram and Lady Beatrice encountered no opposition as it approached the walls of Biddleburg town. Broderick had recalled the guard from the town wall, concentrating on the defense of the castle itself. They made their way to the central square, makeshift banners flying, people singingsongs and shouting "Donec ero felix. " There two sturdy foresters hoisted Bertram to the wooden platform, erected for the Feast of Grimaeus and not yet disassembled. He was flushed with exhilaration, his previous self-doubts erased by the evident enthusiasm of the crowd. As curious townsfolk began to stream into the square, he confidently addressed them.
"Biddlebourgeois!" shouted Bertram. "How d'ye do? Um—you all know me, I suppose. Ah—up there, in the castle, lies Uncle Broderick, the, er, usurper, I suppose you might say. Since he showed up hereabouts, we've had all sorts of unpleasantness. Bloodshed and, um, bloodshed." Someone in the crowd shouted something. "Oh?" said Bertram. "And taxes of course. Beastly things, taxes. I say, it's about time to take a firm line with the old relative. What? I mean, enough is quite enough; there is a limit to hospitality, and Uncle Brod does seem rather to have trod over the edge. So, um, as the heir to the throne, I call upon all good folk to join me in rising against Uncle's tyranny. What ho?"
"See here, yoong Bertram," said a skeptical graybeard, "it's arr very werr tee talk aboot turfing oot Sor Brodick; boot he hath the castle and a hoondred men. How can ye hoope to o'erthrow him?" All eyes went to Bertram as the folk took the oldster's question to heart.
"Well," said Bertram, "I mean, here we've got the people of Bainbridge, the Band of Beatrice, an old school chum with fantastic magical powers, and, er, so forth. And our cause is just, our—how does it go?-our strength is as the strength of ten because our cause is pure, and all that rot; I mean, we can hardly fail, what? Screw your courage to the sticking plaster, as Pater used to say. No, that doesn't sound quite right. Nail your courage to the sticking plaster? Something like that."
"Och, werr, that's as may be," said the graybeard. "However, I dinna care tee risk me life foor tha." There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
"What?" said Bertram, sounding shocked. "After the murders, the taxes, all that sort of thing, you're willing just to let things go on? What about freedom?"
"I canna eat freedom," said the old man. "How wirr things be different when ye rule?"
"What? Why, um, the Band will return to peaceful pursuits, Lady Beatrice will be restored her lands, brothers will be reconciled, the huntsman will return to his courses and the farmer to his lands, charity and goodwill will rule among men, and the heavens will reflect the harmony of the temporal realm. Yes?"
The graybeard rolled his eyes. "And what's tha' tee me?" In the crowd, people were shaking their heads and beginning to drift away.
Beatrice leaned over and whispered in Bertram's ear. "Oh!" said Bertram. "Yes, of course. We'll have to do something about all those nasty tax increases. Yes, very good; we'll cut two pee off the sales tax, and abolish the inheritance levy." The crowd looked slightly more interested, but still undecided. "No? How about three pee off the sales tax, eliminating the capitation and the gabelle, and halving the ad valorem duty on spirituous liquors?" There were smiles and murmurs from the crowd, but still no obvious enthusiasm. "Oh, bugger all," said Bertram. "Let's just go whole hog and eliminate the lot. A tax holiday, that's the ticket! No taxes for a full year, forgiveness of all debts outstanding, and a free pint of bitter for every man!"
"Hurrah!" shouted the crowd. "Hurrah for Sir Bertram!" Hats flew into the air, folk gamboled about like madmen, and many went to get ancient, rusting swords, or billhooks or axes, so they might say they had joined in the final assault on the Tyrant Broderick.
"Tough crowd," muttered Bertram to Beatrice, as she helped him descend the platform.
"You spoke well," she said, smiling.
Only the most prestigious of servants ate in the Steward's Room: Bates, of course; the groom of the chambers; the lady's maids; and the personal gentlemen of the castle's guests. There was silence, save for the sounds of ingestion, as the assembled set to their breakfasts. The eggs were almost cold, alas, for Bates had been late in arriving; something had detained him in the Great Hall, where he served breakfast to the lords and ladies and their guests before the servants ate their own repast.
There came a knocking at the main door to the Steward's Room; an unusual occurrence. Few of the lesser servants would dare to intrude without strong reason. Still, it was always possible that Sir Broderick had called specifically for Bates or one of the others.
Bates wiped his jowls and said, "Coom in." The door opened a few inches, displaying the face of one of the scullery maids, looking rather intimidated. "I'm sorry tee interrupt, Mr. Bates," she said. "Boot Sir Brodick's spats ha' gone missing in the wash."
Lambston, Broderick's valet, looked up from his hash. "Damnation," he said. "I shall have to go."
"Of coorse, Mr. Lambston," said Bates, nodding sagely. Seeing to Broderick's equipage was Lambston's personal responsibility, and it would go hard with him if Broderick's clothing was not prepared and properly laid out when the man was ready to dress.
Lambston pushed back and bustled out the door, closing it behind him. "What the devil do you mean they've gone missing?" he demanded, voice fading as he and the scullery maid made their way down the corridor.
Bates cocked his head to one side; when he judged Lambston was sufficiently distant, he called, "Ye may enter now, Susan."
The rear door opened, and one of the upstairs maids entered. She peered about the Steward's Room with interest, for she had never seen it before; the lesser servants snatched their meals when they could, in the kitchen. "Och, Mr. Bates," she said, impressed by the table's bounty, "ye do serve quite a spread." In truth, the food was quite the equal of that served in the Great Hall; the chef de cuisine ate in the Steward's Room too, and made sure that his companions dined well. Saucily, she snagged a muffin.
The other servants regarded her askance; for a lowly maid to dine in the Steward's Room was unheard of. Indeed, if it had not been clear that she was here at Bates's behest, they would have set at her in the manner of the wolfpack dealing with a rogue that had forgotten its place in the pecking order. "Susan," said Bates soberly, "have ye seen the baron?" Among Susan's responsibilities was making Barthold's bed.
"It's terriber odd," she said through a mouthful of muffin. "His bed hasn't been slept in, nar the sheets turned doon."
"Nar did he break his fast," said Mr. Bates, lips pursed over ruddy countenance. "I canna think where he may be." "Is that what this is about?" asked the groom of the chambers.
"Yes," said Bates. "The missing spats are a mere red herring; I had Lambston sent off on a wird goose chase, so that we might speak freely." Lambston, being Broderick's man, could be expected to report to his master.
"Sir Bertram and his friends have disappeared as well," pointed out the groom of the chambers.
"Aye," said Bates, "but they can take care of themserves; the baron, however . . ." He sighed. "M
oreover, Sir Brodick maintains the baron is aboot the castle, though I ha' seen neither hide nar hair of him." He toldthem how Broderick had insisted on carrying up the baron's tray the previous night. "And it was returned untooched to the kitchen," he said gloomily.
"Do you fear foul play?" asked the groom of the chambers.
"I dee not know what I fear," said Bates, "but we must search foor him."
"If he is dead," said Sir Bertram's valet, "what sharr we do?"
"Then, we sharr ask the young master," said Bates with finality. The others groaned, misdoubting Bertram's judgment, but Bates only looked the sterner. There came a knocking at the main chamber door.
"Lambston," whispered the groom of the chambers; it was a logical surmise, as Lambston had been gone long enough to locate the "missing" spats.
"Joost a second, Mr. Lambston," said Bates loudly. More quietly, he said, "Can soomeone scout oot the dungeon? If he's—"
"I say," said the door. "Open up in there, Bates."
Surprise was not an expression that came easily to Bate's face. Indeed, expression was not something that came easily to Bates; under normal circumstances, his face was frozen in a sort of supercilious obsequence, a dignified mien that altered not a jot no matter how it might be tested. But at this instant, an observer might have noted that Bates gave a definite start, that his eyes revealed an instant of surprise, perhaps even a moment of fondness. "Open the door, Susan, if you will," he said calmly, gravitas already restored.
Susan, wide-eyed, did so, for she too had identified the voice. There in the hall stood Barthold, half supported by Sidney; behind him was Mabel, leaning on her cane. "Coome in, my lord," said Bates. They did; one of the lady's maids hastily evacuated her chair so that Barthold might sit.
"You must hide us, Bates," said Barthold.
Bates drew himself up indignantly. "My lord!" he protested. "This be yer seat. Ye moost not skurk aboot like a dormouse—"
"Have you seen Timaeus?" asked Sidney. "And the others of my party?"
"Nar, marss," said Bates. "They've been oot since yesterday."
"Damn," she said.
"Better free than captive," Barthold told her. "Bates, I fear my brother will try to kill me if he finds me; and he has the allegiance of the guard. I am putting you all in great jeopardy by asking this, I know, but I have nowhere else to tum."
Bates practically quivered with pride and indignation. " 'Tis a sorry pass, my lord," he said. "A sorry pass. We sharr hide ye, of course; we sharr not fail ye now."
"Ye can coont on us, me lord," said the groom of the chambers. There were "ayes" and murmurs of agreement from the others.
A sharp knock came from the door. "There must be some mistake about these spats," said a voice. "Open up, Mr. Bates."
"Take them oot the back passage, Susan," whispered Bates to the upstairs maid. Wide-eyed, she nodded and, cramming the greater part of a muffin into her mouth, led them down a narrow hall.
Bertram, Beatrice, and the others retired to the White Crag, Biddleburg's tavern, to hold a council of war. "Well, I mean, frontal assault, what?" said Bertram. "The right will triumph, eh?"
"Yes," said Kraki. "Ve vill dye the ramparts red vith our blood."
"No, thou silly boy," said Beatrice to Bertram. "That were an approach of desperation, to assault a fortified position with a force of militia and foresters."
"Is that right?" said Bertram doubtfully. "I'm afraid Iavoided military science like the plague at university. What else is there to do? I mean, there's the castle—I imagine Uncle Brod has it sewn up tight by now."
"Now," said Beatrice meaningfully, "is when our magicians must do their all."
"What?" said Timaeus, a little startled.
"Quite right," said Jasper. "We'll have to take a- section of the wall. I fly, you teleport; between fireballs and a mind control or two, we ought to be able to neutralize the immediate defenders. We can find some ladders, I suppose? The Band can scale the walls behind us, then—"
"Not all of us are invisible," complained Timaeus. "You don't run any great risk, but all it takes is one spear in my gut—-'t
"There, there, old man," said Bertram, "screw your courage to the-is it `spirit gum' I'm looking for?"
"Oh, shut up," said Timaeus testily. "How I ever got involved in this—"
"Look," said Nick. "Why don't we try a parley first? If I were Broderick, I'd be tempted to cut and run."
"You speak wisely," said Beatrice.
A brisk spring breeze blew across the ramparts of Biddleburg Castle, fleecy clouds scudding across the sky. The air was warm and redolent with the smell of growing things. Down below, the town was a scene of feverish activity, hammers banging, saws sawing away, the townsfolk preparing ladders and siege machines. Every once in a while, members of the Band would loft an arrow toward the castle walls; their aim was poor, at this distance, in this wind, but the defenders stood nervously behind crenellations, exposing themselves as little as possible.
"What do you mean they've escaped?" shouted Broderick.
"I'm sorry, my lord," said Marek, "but I found the cells empty, save for Lem here—"
"You pathetic pismire," said Broderick, turning on Lem and almost screaming.
"I'm s-s-sorry, my lord," said Lem, shaking in the face of such wrath. "They overpowered me, and—" "Overpowered you?
"Overpowered you? A woman in a party dress and a man old enough to be your greatgrandfather? Gods, we can't spare the men to comb the castle now."
"My lord," said Captain Blentz soothingly. "If we loot the treasury, take the wagon—a cavalry charge can clear the road-we can be in Hamsterburg, rich men, in days. There comes a time when discretion—"
"You puling wretch," said Broderick, striking Blentz in the face hard enough to leave a crimson mark beneath the captain's stubble. "The next man that talks of flight shall hang. We shall slaughter them, slaughter them all if need be; there is no going back now, no course for us but bloodshed and victory. Rivers of blood may yet flow, and years of desolation pass over—"
"Yes, my lord," said Blentz, backing away. "As you say, my lord."
"A party approaches, sir," said Marek.
And it was true. Coming up toward the castle gate was a group of seven, under flag of truce. Broderick strode along the wall, down toward the gate tower, Blentz scurrying after.
A pot of oil was bubbling there, its fire tended by Gaston. Broderick stood, leaning out from the wall, the tower stair behind him, fearlessly exposing himself to the fire of the archers below-but no arrows came, for the Band was under strict orders to avoid combat till the parley had reached its conclusion.
Bertram was there, in a stretcher born by two foresters. With him were Beatrice and Timaeus; also Master Gorham, of Bainbridge, and Banker Billings, of Biddleburg town.
"Hallo, Uncle," said Bertram.
"Hallo, there, Bertie," said Broderick. "You have made rather a hash of things, you know."
"Well, um, here we are," said Bertram awkwardly. "I say, old man; why don't you open the gate, what? Clemency all round, gaiety and celebration, you can go home to the Lesser Dzorzia no worse for the wear."
"Idiot!" said Broderick. "You and I could have squeezed this barony till the pips squeaked, sucked it dry, lived like kings. You could have gone back to live the high life in Urf Durfal; now, there is nothing but the grave before you. Shall I surrender this fortress to a rabble? Shall I surrender a fortune to my feebleminded nephew? Am I a fool? Begone."
There was a clatter on the tower stairs; Broderick did not look about, perhaps taking the noise for reinforcements. Cannily, he eyed the distance between Bertram's party and the gate, their position relative to the pot of boiling oil; and he reached out one hand to grab the handle of the pot, preparing to tip it over and french-fry his foes—
Suddenly, a cane whacked Broderick in the temple, sending him sprawling against a merlon.
"That'rr be enow o' that, ye caitiff!" said a quavering, elderly voice. Agape, Broderick
looked up to see Mistress Mabel, her wispy beard quivering with righteous rage, atop her broom, one hand waving her snake-knobbed cane, circling back through the air for another whack.
From the tower stair burst the servants, Mr. Bates in the lead with an enormous carving knife. Behind him, a footman carried Baron Barthold, the elderly nobleman still too weak to manage the stairs himself. And behind him came Sidney, with her own sword and mail. The other servants, armed with an assortment of cutlery and decorative weapons, pried from their places on the walls of the Great Hall, fanned out across the ramparts.
"Marek!" bellowed Broderick, drawing his own sword. "Gaston! To me! Treachery!"
Soldiers backed uncertainly toward Broderick, weapons out.
One Quest, Hold the Dragons Page 12
