To Heaven let us sail,“ Sir Tchalico agreed, ”and here is our boatman, though it is doubtless the last thing he intends.“ They drew rein only a few feet behind the king, who had himself stopped in front of a hovel meaner than the rest, so ill-kempt one might think it was vacant, and tumbling with neglect. But the king sat straight and roared out, ”Friar! Monk and shave-pate! Come out to meet your king!“
Eyes watched from huts all about, and a few burly peasant men emerged, fear evident in every line of their bodies, but their faces grim and determined, their fists clenched, sickles and flails in their hands. But the king paid no heed; he only called out again, “Man of the cloth! Man of the clergy! Come forth!”
Still the village sat in silence. The king took a deep breath to call again, but before he did, a peasant came out, one no cleaner than the rest, with a tunic just as patched and frayed as theirs, his hands just as callused from toil-but he wore a hat beneath the sun of June, where the rest of them did not. “Uncover before your king!” Maledicto roared. The peasant raised a trembling hand and took off his hat. The bald spot was too regular, too perfect a circle to be natural; it was a tonsure. Do you deny you are a priest?“ Maledicto demanded. Suddenly, the fear was gone, and the peasant straightened with pride. ”Nay, I will boast of it! I am a priest of the Church, and I serve God and my fellow man!“
Why did the evil king not wince at the holy Name? Why did he not raise his whip to strike, or draw his sword? And why was he kneeling in the dust before the peasant, hands clasped and head bowed, intoning, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!”
The peasants stared, flabbergasted. “Turn away!” Sir Sticchi barked. “Have you never heard of the seal of the confessional?”
The peasants came to themselves with a start and turned away into their houses. In seconds the village seemed empty. The words came pouring forth from the king’s mouth, the tale and toll of a century of sins; the priest barely had time to whip a worn, threadbare stole from his pocket and yank it around his neck. As he listened to the list of horrors, his face grew haggard and his shoulders slumped. In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the king; in a few more he had clasped the old man’s trembling hands and was listening, nodding, wide-eyed, in encouragement. “It would seem we are not to be martyred after all,” Sir Sticchi said, staring and numb. “Do not believe it for a second,” Sir Tchalico snapped. “I doubt not the Devil heard as soon as the king said ‘Bless me,’ and dispatched a demon before he’d said ‘sinned.’ Sell your life dearly, Brother Sticchi-for the king’s sake, and for the kingdom’s! We will pay with our lives, but we must buy him enough time to-”
Flame erupted not ten yards from them. The priest cried out and shrank away, but King Maledicto held his hands with an iron grip and kept him near enough to hear as the sins poured out of him, so fast as to be scarcely intelligible. It was no demon, but a horrible, glittering serpentine thing that stood on a dozen clawed feet while four more pawed the air. A saddle was fastened between those upper legs, a saddle for a man in a flame-red robe, masked and hooded, nothing showing but his eyes. In his hand swung a battle-axe two feet across, far too big for any mortal man to swing. Sir Sticchi bellowed, “For God and Saint Mark!” and kicked his charger into a gallop. “For the Saints and the Lord!” Sir Tchalico echoed, and came charging after. They careened into the monstrosity before it could take two steps. It screamed and lashed out at them with steel-sharp claws; its rider bellowed rage in a voice that shook the village, and swung his sword. Sir Sticchi shouted in pain as the blade cut through his armor and into his shoulder, but he struck anyway, his sword thrusting into the monster’s chest. It screamed in agony and anger, blasting him with breath that blackened and pitted his helmet.His horse screamed in fright, but the knight held it in place, hewing and hacking and madly singing a battle hymn.Sir Tchalico joined in, striking from the other side, and beast and rider alike howled in pain and rage. Sword and tooth and talon and struck again. Sir Sticchi fell, blood fountaining from a torn throat; his horse screamed and ran. Sir Tchalico howled in agonyas flame enveloped him; then he fell, and the monster stamped down, through his armor, through his chest, and the horse neighed in terror and wheeled to run. But the twisting sword cut it down, and the monster stepped over the bodies, reaching out for the king. “Ego te absolvo!” the priest cried an instant before a huge battle-axe flashed before his face, and the king’s head fell to the ground. A second later, the priest’s head rolled beside it in the dust. The monster screamed in terrible pain, and its rider howled in frustration-for the king was dead, as was the priest who had shriven him, but three souls had gone to Heaven, and one to Purgatory instead of Hell. Satan was cheated, and his minion suffered far more than the victims had. Fire exploded around them, and monster and rider were gone-but the peasants did not come out for the bodies until the smell of brimstone had faded away. No good to see you again, Lord Chancellor!“ Garchi raised a hand to pound the chancellor on the back, then remembered and withdrew the slap. ”Your lad does well, very well indeed.“
“You have followed my instructions, then?”
“We have-but alas, it did no good,” Garchi said with a sigh. “Oh, the lad can wench and swill with the best of them-but he doesn’t. Not all that often, at least. He’ll only bed one wench a night, and not even every night, at that. I’ve never heard one of them complain of his treatment, though.”
Rebozo thought that he might be more reassured if the women had complained-but he had enough tact not to say so. “I regret to hear it; a boy his age ought to enjoy the leisure to play while he can. Should have, I should say-I fear that time is at an end.”
“Oh?” Garchi looked up, alert, but neither sad nor glad. “You’re taking him from us, then?”
“I fear so-he must begin his work in this world. Send him to me, Lord Garchi.”
“When he’s done with… the matter at hand, of course.”
“Of course.”
Garchi didn’t mention that the task at hand was a book in Latin, about the lives of the old emperors. He wasn’t sure Rebozo would be happy about it. Consequently, Rebozo was rather surprised when the servant announced Sir Boncorro only fifteen minutes later. Rebozo did not have to rise, since he was still pacing. The prince came in right behind. “Your pardon for not dressing more elaborately, Lord Chancellor, but I did not wish to keep you waiting… What means this?”
The chancellor had sunk to one knee, bowing his head. “Long live the king!”
For a minute Boncorro stood frozen, as the meaning of the salutation sank in and he adjusted his mind to it. He seemed to stand a little taller, even straighter than he had. “So it has happened. The Devil has tired of my grandfather, has withdrawn the sorcery that kept him alive, and the king is dead.”
“Long live the king,” Rebozo returned. Boncorro stood still a moment longer, to let the shock and numbness pass-and then came the first fierce elation of triumph. Grandfather was dead, and Boncorro was still alive! Then he stepped forward to clasp Rebozo by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. “You must not kneel to me, old friend. You have ever been my companion in adversity, my shield in danger. You shall always stand in my presence, and may sit when I sit.”
“I-I thank your Majesty for this high privilege,” Rebozo stammered. “You have earned it,” Boncorro said simply. The chancellor stood a moment, looking at him. Prince Boncorro had grown into a fine figure of a man-six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and arms, legs that showed as pillars in his tights, but shapely pillars indeed, and a very handsome face, with straight nose, generous mouth, and large blue eyes, beneath a cap of golden hair. It was a face that seemed deceptively frank and open, but Rebozo knew that appearance was mostly illusion. He also knew that of the women who came to Boncorro’s bed, few came reluctantly. “You do not mourn, your Majesty?”
Boncorro permitted himself a smile of amusement. “I shall appear properly grief-stricken in public, Lord Chancellor-but you know better than any man that I rejoice at my grandfather’s death. I fe
ared him and hated him as much as I admired and loved my father-and I have no doubt it was he who gave the order to kill saintly son. Indeed, I charge you with the task of finding the man who struck the blow.”
Rebozo stared. “But-But-it was the groom! The man who found the body!”
Boncorro waved the idea away impatiently. “He discovered the hat is all. There is no reason to believe he thrust the knife himself.”
“He confessed!”
“Under torture. All his confession means is that he wanted the pain to stop.”
Rebozo felt a cold chill enwrap him; the prince-no, king, was showing wisdom far beyond his years. “Then who could have done it?”
“Who gained by it?” King Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a piercing gaze. “Only me-and Hell. I know that I did not slay him.Now how did my grandfather die?”
“Why-beside two knights, his only guards; they were dead, too. And a peasant…”
“How was he slain? With what weapon?”
“His… his head was… he was beheaded, Majesty.”
“Beheaded?”Boncorro frowned.“Were there any other wounds?”
Definitely, he saw too much for a youth of twenty. “There was a dagger-in his back, between the shoulder blades.”
Boncorro’s face lit with keen delight. “Describe the dagger!”
“It… it was-” Chancellor Rebozo paused to picture the dagger in his mind. “-double-edged, the blade sloping straight to the point on both sides… an oval for a hilt… The handle…”
“Say it, man!”
“I cannot!” Rebozo looked away. “It was sculpted, it was…obscene… evil.”
“Like the dagger that slew my father!”
“Very like it,” Rebozo said unwillingly. “A twin.”
“Then the same man did it, or two assassins who served the same lord! Find me the murderer of my grandfather, Rebozo, and I doubt not you shall find me also the murderer of my father!”
The chancellor stared. “Then-you still wish me to serve you, your Majesty?”
“Of course. You saved my life when my father died, you served my grandfather from fear rather than desire, and you have always been gentle and kind to me. I can think of no man more capable, nor one I would more readily trust and wish to have by me. Now make ready for us to go to the capital.”
“Surely, Majesty,” the chancellor said, and turned away, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. A local bandit was tortured until he confessed to the murder of the king and his knights. Unfortunately, Baron Garchi and his sons were overly zealous, killing the outlaw and his whole band on the spot. None of them owned a dagger with an obscene and horrifying hilt. None of them rode a flame-skinned monster, or carried a battle-axe of any size; they were all archers and swordsmen. But Rebozo was satisfied and reported his results to the king. The king was not convinced. At least Boncorro didn’t start making changes the instant he arrived at the royal castle. He waited until after his coronation-three weeks. That also gave him time to recruit his own bodyguards, and to lay protective spells against them. He also laid protective spells against everyone else, throughout the castle and all around it. They sent Rebozo into constant nervous agitation-wherever he went, the blasted things sent his blood tingling! It was unnerving to know that the king didn’t really trust him-though the chancellor had to admit that Boncorro seemed to trust him more than anyone else. It was even more unnerving to Rebozo to know that the king had learned so much magic-so much that he didn’t really need the protection of his chancellor’s sorcery. That made Rebozo more nervous than anything else-not being needed. He felt as if he stood on sand, and the sands were constantly shifting beneath him. They shifted even more because the young king spent an hour a day in the library, locking the door securely to make sure he would not be disturbed. There were a few old Greek and Roman manuscripts in there, but most of the shelves were filled with books of sorcery. The spells he actually used, though, were scarcely sorcerous at all, such as the ward that held the library doors constantly locked against even Rebozo’s magic when the king was not there. Where had he learned such power? Some of his spells were actually based on Goodness, and gave Rebozo a real shock when he encountered them, a shock that had after-effects of nausea and palpitations that went on for hours. At least the chancellor consoled himself, none of them invoked the power of the Saints or their Master. But that was cold comfort indeed. Where had the son of a sorcerer learned such magic? Surely not in Baron Garchi’s castle-though the country lord was far from the most sinister in the kingdom, too easygoing to be truly evil in any way, he was nonetheless fond of his pleasures, and most of them rather wicked; some were definitely corrupt. He had done his best to raise the boy in debauchery, even as he had raised his own sons-and now look what had happened! Had there been some secret priest among the baron’s servants? Some copy of some holy book that the prince had found? Rebozo resolved to give Garchi and his castle a thorough housecleaning-as soon as King Boncorro allowed him time enough. If ever. The demands were almost constant, first redecorating the castle to Boocorro’s taste, then supervising the strengthening of the defenses of the town and the castle, as well as preparing for the coronation. It was while he was wrapped up in all of this that the king had laid his network of spells in and around the castle, giving Rebozo such a rude shock when he discovered them. He thought he would have some respite after the coronation was over, then Boncorro called him in the very next morning, not long after dawn-and the chancellor was dismayed to see that the young king had obviously been awake for at least an hour already! He sat at a table in his solar, surrounded by books and papers. He looked up as the chancellor entered, and his face lit with a smile. “Ah! Rebozo, old friend!” He stood and came around the desk to clasp the chancellor by the shoulders. “And how are you this morning?”
“Quite well, thank you, your Majesty.” Rebozo reflected sourly that he had felt better before having to confront the young king’s energy and enthusiasm. “Good, good! Then to work, eh?” Boncorro swung around behind the table and sat again. “We must begin new ways today, Rebozo!”
“New ways?” Rebozo felt a chill of apprehension. “What innovations have you planned, your Majesty?”
Boncorro looked down at his papers. “There is a law that any priests who are discovered are to be executed on the spot.”
“Surely your Majesty will not repeal that law!”
“No-but I wish to see that it is no longer enforced.” Boncorro looked up at him. “It is too easy for someone with a grudge against his rival to slay him out of hand, then claim he was a secret priest. Issue commands that no priests are to be slain, or even arrested.”
“But your Majesty! That will mean that people will start flocking to Ma-their M-M-M-”
“To Mass,” Boncorro finished for him. “It would seem I am not so far gone in sorcery as you yourself, Rebozo, for I can still say the word. Yes, people will go to the priests-but only those who wish to. If Grandfather did nothing else, he did at least free the common folk from fear of religion and the tyranny of the clergy-only those who truly believe, or wish to, will go.”
“Satan will scourge the Earth of you!”
“No, he will not,” Boncorro contradicted, “for I am scarcely a saint, Rebozo, and I am not abolishing the law that prohibits the priests, or their services. There is still room for the Devil to think I can be swayed to his service-and more grounds for that than I like to admit.”
“More grounds indeed,” Rebozo said heavily. “You are a young man Majesty, with a young man’s appetites, and a young king’s lust for power.”
“As I am even now showing,” Boncorro agreed “But I am not turning this country toward the powers of Heaven, Lord Chancellor-only toward my own.”
And Rebozo realized that this was true. Somewhat reassured that his young king was not really trying to do good, but only to tighten his hold over his kingdom in a way his grandfather never had, the chancellor went out to give the necessary orders. The king said, “Send wor
d to ail the noblemen that the taxes are being reduced to half of their income.”
Rebozo stared. “To half?”“Half.” The king turned a sheet of foolscap around so that Rebozo could read it. “I have cast up accounts and found that we can easily maintain this great castle, all our army, and all our servants on half. Indeed, there will remain a substantial sum to squirrel away in the treasury.” He sat back with a sigh, shaking his head. “It is quite empty. I was horrified to discover how Grandfather had spent it all.”
Rebozo was horrified to discover that Boncorro did not approve of the old king’s extravagances and pleasures. “Majesty, it is those luxuries and affairs of state that held the barons’ loyalty!”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said the young king. “It was fear of the royal army and the king’s magic that held them in line, naught else-a royal army that will do quite well without a florin’s worth of ale for each man, for each day. They will fight all the better for being sober.”
“But these are merchants’ tricks!” Rebozo cried. “Where did you learn such lowly notions?”
“From the traders in the fairs, while my foster brothers were learning how to be fleeced by tricksters,” Boncorro replied. “I will not disdain any knowledge, if it is sound and will help me to hold my kingdom.”
“But magic, your Majesty! Sorcery! Virgins cost dearly, and animals for slaughter, and dead bodies! There must he money for my sorcery!”
My magic is far less expensive,“ King Boncorro assured him, but nevertheless effective for all that. Indeed, I look forward to the first baron who seeks to rebel.” His eyes glinted with anticipation. “Once I have settled with him, no others will dare.”
Rebozo stared into the guileless blue eyes and felt his blood run cold. “Tell the barons their taxes are lowered,” Boncorro said softly. “That much of my message they will be glad to hear.”
Rebozo recovered. “Majesty-is it not enough to tell only the dukes? Cannot they send word to their barons, as they always have?”
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