The King's Justice: Two Novellas

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Much had been altered within me, as it had within my only friend, and conceivably within the breast and purposes of my Queen. Grim with haste, I sought some sign that might betoken other alterations.

  I was my sovereign’s Hieronomer, was I not? What other service remained for me to perform?

  From the chamber where my supply of chickens, piglets, lambs, and other such small beasts were kept cooped and ready—a supply regularly replenished by one of the Domicile’s lesser servants—I selected a bristling rooster at random. Holding its wings pinned, I bore it to the nearest of my sacrificial worktables. There I wrung the rooster’s neck, taking care only to spill no drop of blood. Deft with long practice, I plucked feathers enough to expose the flesh from gullet to tail. Then I dropped the still-warm corpse to the table. Rather than arrange it for my convenience, I briefly busied myself selecting and sharpening a suitable blade.

  When I returned to the table, I did not hesitate. Glancing at my victim only long enough to ensure that I did not slice my hand, I turned my head away. Deliberately negligent, I made one untidy slash to open the whole of the body.

  Such negligence was vital to hieromancy, as it was to other arts of augury. Its purpose was to foil the augur’s natural impulse to impose an artificial and therefore misleading interpretation upon the scrying—the impulse, that is, to obtain a desired result rather than an honest one.

  Having performed my cut, however, I did not immediately turn to consider my sacrifice—to examine the splash and texture of its fluids, the condition of its organs, the twisting of its entrails, and so forth. For a time, I found myself transfixed by my hand.

  I could not release my blade. Whether by some form of cramping, or by some unfamiliar effect of the blood which had drenched my hand to the wrist—or perhaps by simple dread—I had lost command of my fingers. They would not unclose. Some moments passed as I stared at my hand as though it had performed an action personally abhorrent.

  I did not understand.

  Nonetheless paralysis was as distasteful as bloodshed. Suddenly vexed, I stabbed the blade into my table with force sufficient to break my grasp. Then, unwilling to consider the import of my unaccustomed helplessness, I turned at once to regard my handiwork.

  All was as I had interminably discerned it. An awkward loop of the intestine there, a curious eruption of blood there, an apparent necrosis of the liver and bowel there and there. Such signs may have conveyed naught to one ungifted, but to a hieronomer they were as eloquent as language.

  As they had ever done, they spoke to me of barbarism and slavery.

  So disappointed was I—so disgusted with my impure lineage and inadequate sight and overcome mind—that moments were lost ere I glanced at the rooster’s heart and saw it still beating.

  The creature was dead. I had slain it with my own hand. More, I had savaged its corpse. Yet its heart beat on.

  As I stared dumb-struck, the heart ceased its labor. No further blood pulsed from its severed channels. Nonetheless I had seen it. I had seen it.

  Thereafter some considerable time appeared to vanish. When I returned to myself, I understood that I had witnessed another in a sequence of unforeseen alterations. Though I was strangely reluctant to consider its significance, I found myself convinced that it expressed a further alteration in me.

  In the days that followed, I grew ravenous for tidings, though none were forthcoming. Of activity the Domicile housed a frenetic abundance. One of the guard captains shouted himself mute striving to train some ten or twelve conscripted servants and villagers while the other lashed men familiar with their duties through an arduous iteration of drills for the defense of the house. The Domicile’s gate-facing courtyard and walls were crowded from dawn to dusk with exertion, oaths, and sweat. Yet those who labored within the huge edifice were no less driven, and their tasks did not commence at dawn or cease at dusk. Cooks and scrub-maids prepared tables, vessels, utensils, and ovens to produce a vast array of pastries, roasts, confections, and the like. Wains arrived almost hourly to supply the grains, meats, sugars, ales, and wines required by Her Majesty’s feast. Chamber servants hastened to ready accommodations for a considerable surfeit of guests. Menials on their knees polished the stone floors of the feasting-hall and the ballroom to an improbable luster, while others took down every tapestry and rolled every rug to beat them clean of dust, and still others waxed every wooden surface. Altogether I could not venture beyond my laborium without finding myself in the path of rushing servants harried by the Majordomo’s tongue.

  Nevertheless rumors there were in comparable abundance, all believed, none verified, and most contradictory. None of the barons proposed to attend their sovereign’s festivities. All of them would come accompanied by their entire households. Excrucia had been seen in the kitchens, or abroad among the halls. She had been gaoled in a tower where none beheld her other than those who conveyed her meals, tasted every dish, and bore away her trays. My Queen herself was everywhere and nowhere. And at all times there was talk of armies. All or few of the barons had mustered forces. All or few intended contests of strength or blood with each other. Men-at-arms were marching even now to crown their ruler’s solstice ball with a display of allegiance—or to lay siege against Her Majesty—or they made haste elsewhere to oppose foes striking at distant coasts. My Queen intended her ball as a welcome for those foes, but also as a reward for the barons who drove Indemnie’s enemies from us.

  Yet of the actual movements of armies—or indeed of ships—I gleaned naught to appease my hunger. Nor did I learn aught of Excrucia or her mother. Where every possibility was averred, none inspired credence. Seven days remained until the ball, and then five, and still I had neither outlet nor relief for my anticipations and dreads.

  On the fourth day, however, a knock sounded on the iron of my door. When I opened it, heart leaping, I found myself staring at Slew with his arms laden.

  To my sight, he had the look of a headsman. The manner in which he discarded his burdens at my feet resembled the fall of an axe.

  While I gaped in open befuddlement, he essayed my chamber, the tables devoid of victims, the stains of old blood in the wood. No doubt he noted the blade driven into a plank of one table. I had not thought to remove it.

  Seeing that his arrival had deprived me of language, he indicated his bundles with a slight twist of one hand—the same hand with which he had caused a dirk to appear at Opalt Intrix’s throat. In a tone of veiled amusement or scorn, he pronounced, “Livery.”

  I managed a croak. “Livery?”

  “You will attend,” he informed me, “among the household guard.”

  Peering at his burdens, I saw now that they were the attire and weapons of a guard. A halberd and dirk lay atop a rough-spun hooded cloak as black as my own garments. Boots with iron studs in their soles were there, coarse pantaloons of the same dark fabric as the cloak, a finer surcoat—black also—that may have been silk, an ornamental helm little more than a band for the brow. In addition, I recognized the style of the belt chased with silver. And I gazed agog at the hauberk of boiled leather, a hauberk such as the Domicile’s defenders wore, emblazoned in silver with Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s coat-of-arms, which was an emblem of a dove with its wings outstretched to both shield and be supported by five pillars representing the barons.

  Still gaping, I inquired hoarsely, “Her Majesty wishes me to stand the walls?” The notion was absurd. I knew nothing of such duties—or of such weapons.

  “Her Majesty,” replied Slew, his tone still veiled, “commands your attendance at the ball.”

  “The ball?” There I met the man’s ungiving gaze with my astonishment. “Her Majesty commands me to attend the ball?” A notion as ludicrous as defending the house. I was merely her Hieronomer, a servant. I had no place among my Queen’s festivities. “Disguised as a guard? For what purpose?”

  My visitor granted me a small shrug. “Enterta
inment.”

  Entertainment? I endeavored to bleat the word aloud, but my voice had forsaken me. Did she require me to perform like a harlequin for her guests?

  There Slew took pity on me. “Your entertainment,” he explained. “And perhaps enlightenment. Your only task will be to mingle and hear. Attired as a guard, you will encounter no interference. Nor will you be accosted with queries or conversation. You need only move about and give heed and bear your weapons”—briefly he bared his teeth in a humorless smile—“as a man who understands their uses.”

  His teeth, I observed with some disgust, were as yellow and clotted as a dog’s.

  Nonetheless I felt an urgent impulse to plead with him. I craved a more forthcoming explanation. However, the sight of his teeth and the memory of his dirk encouraged the recall that he was Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s instrument of murder, not her privy counselor. And I had learned that her dealings commonly resembled whims—fanciful words and deeds calculated to conceal her true purposes. I would gain no further insight from Slew, for in all likelihood he had been accorded none.

  With an effort that caused tremors in my knees, I straightened my posture and lifted my chin to gaze more directly at my sovereign’s bodyguard. Though my voice lacked true self-mastery, I managed a measure of firmness.

  “Accept my thanks, Slew. Inform Her Majesty that I will obey her commands with considerable interest.”

  Returning no better answer than a grunt of disdain, the man withdrew, shutting the door at his back.

  Well, I thought while I attempted to calm myself. Well. Had I desired further alterations within the conundrum of Indemnie’s dooms? Had I been so reckless? Well, then. Here was one that searched me to the core of my private desires. And while I felt confident that I would make a poor showing as a guard, I began to guess at my Queen’s motive for this apparent whim. Somehow—though I could not imagine how—my plain defiance had persuaded her of my loyalty. And I had heard her speak of her underlying purposes. Granted, therefore, the freedom of the ball, I might well come upon some oblique remark or chance reference which would prove more reliable than the host of rumors festering within the Domicile. And if I acquired some noteworthy hint or insight, my Queen could trust that I would disclose it.

  If I could but avoid dropping the halberd, or cutting myself with the dirk loose in its sheath, or wandering in my wits, I might discover some better form of service than hieromancy.

  The gift is the gift, Opalt Intrix had declared when I had inquired whether an alchemist might attempt hieronomy. Only purity, talent, and character vary. From such assertions, I deduced—though my reasoning stood in a quag of uncertainties—that a hieronomer might likewise attempt alchemy. Alchemists prefer tangible tasks— Did they indeed? Then I required only a tangible task when the crisis or opportunity with which my Queen had threatened me presented itself. A tangible task—and the strength of will to hazard its completion.

  Hardly knowing what was in my mind, I felt certain only that failure would cost hundreds or thousands of lives. In truth, it might bring about the dooms which I yearned to avert. Still I did what I could to ready myself for a bold and nameless deed that would doubtless exceed my abilities, flawed as they were by imperfect lineage, ignorance, and various defects of character.

  However, my ability to fret over possibilities without form or substance was not limitless. For perhaps a day and a half, I gnawed to no good effect on thoughts too vague to be named intentions. Thereafter I endeavored to emulate the practicality of alchemists. Donning my unfamiliar livery—a poor fit, but I did not trouble to amend it—I secreted both my commandeered pouch of chrism and my best blade under my hauberk, then practiced withdrawing both as swiftly as I could manage. The trick, as I discovered at once, was to do so without either spilling the powder or cutting myself. At first, I was clumsy beyond sufferance or use, having no gift of grace or fluid movement. With repetition, however, I became marginally more adept. And when I could endure no more, I rested for a time, ate a meal provided by one of the Domicile’s serving-maids, drank a substantial quantity of wine, replaced the emptied tray outside my door, and resumed my efforts to acquire dexterity.

  The day before the ball dawned to gusting winds and mountainous thunderheads. In the distant east, a storm gathered, baleful and rife with omens. Yet it did not strike the isle. While the winds persisted, the clouds themselves drifted apart as though they had lost interest. Toward evening, they renewed their resolve, again seething toward us with condensed malevolence. Then, however, they frayed away once more, seemingly dispersed by the relentless—if somewhat unsteady—winds.

  Heartened by such imprecise auguries, I left my chambers clad as myself and accosted the first serving-maid whose path intersected mine. Assuming an imperious air that little resembled my customary demeanor, I instructed her to inform Vail that I wished speech with him. To ease her over-stretched nerves, I added that my desires could be relayed by any of Her Highness’ guards, should Vail himself be unavailable. Then I sent her on her way.

  Thereafter I spent a portion of the evening sampling the Domicile’s disquietude, hoping to find it as changeable as the weather. In that, however, I was disappointed. A dread more explicit than the forecasts implied by winds and weather crowded my Queen’s habitation. When I judged that I had allowed time enough for my wishes to reach Vail’s ear, I returned to my laborium.

  Some hours later, my useless impatience was rewarded with a knock at my door. Hastening to admit Vail, I found the same serving-maid there, trembling as though she feared for her life. “Your pardon, Hieronomer,” she blurted in a scramble of alarm. “Vail replies that it is impossible. Her Majesty requires him.”

  While I scowled my dismay—which no doubt resembled wrath in the girl’s sight—she fled. Thus I was left with naught but my own thoughts to ready me for the morrow.

  They augured only a blank and uninterpretable peril.

  As though echoing my doom-drenched mood, the morn of my Queen’s ball was met with massive thunderheads driven toward the isle by a harsh easterly. Yet the threat of storms remained in abeyance, withheld by some vagary of weather. Nevertheless a fever of haste gripped the Domicile, though only the last preparations remained to provide a vent for the Majordomo’s ire. Servants ran they knew not where to complete uncertain tasks. The household guards sharpened their blades and oiled their leathers with a look of madness in their eyes. Chamber-maids made a flurry of unnecessary cleaning in the apartments and bedrooms assigned to Her Majesty’s guests, while cooks and their underlings verified again and again that they would not be tardy in welcoming arrivals with refreshments and treats.

  And the guests came, some with the dawn, others soon thereafter. No doubt they had eyed the thunderheads, and had concluded that they required immediate shelter more than they desired dignity after their various journeys. From the vantage of an oriel overlooking the wide flag-stoned courtyard or bailey which lay between the gated walls and the solid bulk of the house, I watched their arrivals.

  First to enter the Domicile was Baron Jakob Plinth with a modest entourage including only his wife—a curious choice, considering that his sovereign had offered to marry him—his five daughters, their immediate servants, and no guards. Of his reported army there was no sign. However, the western vistas below the Domicile on its eminence were complicated by numerous hills, any one of which might serve to conceal from sight hundreds or indeed thousands of men. How he proposed to signal his forces, should he determine to strike, was a nice question for which I had no answer.

  To all appearances, however, such queries did not trouble Inimica Phlegathon deVry IV. Cloaked against the wind, and smiling at the prospect of civil war, she greeted Baron Plinth with perfect grace in the courtyard. A model of courtesy, she spoke kindly to his wife—a slim woman no longer young clinging urgently to her husband—then addressed each of his blushing daughters by name. Thereafter she delivered the Baron an
d his people to the Majordomo, who sweetened her manner to emulate Her Majesty’s example as she assembled an escort to guide the Baron and his party to their apartments.

  Throughout the encounter, Baron Plinth’s manner was at once dour in the extreme and scrupulously correct. By no hint of voice or demeanor did he suggest that he had an army within call. Nor did he deign to acknowledge that any subject of doubt or contention lay between him and his monarch. The only sign of his stance toward Her Majesty’s policies was the firmness with which he supported his wife as he followed the Majordomo inward.

  An hour later, Baron Praylix Venery approached the gates, surrounded by ten men-at-arms and perhaps twice that many seeming courtesans. Him also my Queen greeted with exquisite politesse, ignoring the obvious affront of his guards while exchanging warm badinage with his women. To his sovereign’s courtesies, he replied with a surplus of effusion, simultaneously proclaiming himself innocent in the affairs of the realm and implying that he had much to relate at a more private moment. However, Her Majesty consigned him and his company to the Majordomo without offering him an occasion for his secrets.

  Plainly disconcerted, and more than mildly irked, he entered the Domicile speaking volubly to all within reach of his voice.

  Hard on Baron Venery’s heels came Baron Quirk Panderman. Eschewing some more traditional entourage—apart from a man known to me only as the Baron’s companion in drink—he brought with him teams of drovers to manage five wains laden with tuns of wine. To my Queen’s studious warmth, he responding by declaring his resolve to share his finest vintage with Her Majesty’s guests. When his wains had been unloaded, and his drovers dismissed, he entered the house reeling, accompanied by the Majordomo’s ill-concealed disgust.

  Toward noon, Baron Glare Estobate approached on his horse, no doubt delayed in his wonted haste by the inconvenient detail that his cadre of soldiers—a band of twenty men armored, helmed, and armed—marched afoot. By this time, rain had begun to fall. Though the clouds that released it glowered, heavy as a warlord’s wrath, the rain itself was little more than a drizzle. It might have resembled a spring shower, kindly and nourishing. Flailed by the chaos of winds within the bailey, however, it stung with the force of small insects. Nevertheless my Queen strode out to meet the Baron as though she were inured to such discomforts. Her only concession to the wet was the hood of her cloak.