“Gone, Your Grace,” came an impassive but deeply dignified voice from high above. “Poor little lad took one look at whom he’d knocked over and lit off down the passageway as though the beasts of hell itself were nipping at his heels.”
Choking back the venomous threats he’d been about to spew after the wretch who’d humiliated him—and at the goggling, whispering imbeciles who’d witnessed his humiliation and were staring at him still—Mordecai awkwardly staggered to his feet. Adjusting his badly rumpled robe, he attempted to rearrange his perfect features into an expression other than murderous rage.
“Lord Bartok,” he said, bowing low (but not too low) to the second most powerful man in the kingdom, after himself.
Lord Bartok smiled thinly and gave a barely perceptible nod in return. The Bartok Dynasty had been around since the beginning of time. Relied upon by Erok kings and so noble that they themselves were almost royal, the Bartoks were forever plotting the rise of a favoured son or daughter—or the downfall of some enemy or friend who’d risen too high for comfort. From the first, Mordecai would have liked nothing better than to crush them utterly— starting with the smug, silver-haired patriarch who now stood before him—but since he’d always known that he was going to need noble support for his daring plans to come to fruition, he’d chosen instead to lavish the Bartoks with such land, riches and titles that even they could not dispute the fact that they owed him.
“Shall we, Your Grace?” Lord Bartok asked now, tilting his head in the direction of the Council chamber.
“Of course, my lord,” murmured Mordecai with the dignity of a nobleman bred and born.
Together, the two of them walked into the Council chamber, with its high, beamed ceiling and painted walls hung with exquisite tapestries and gloomy portraits of dead Erok kings—including one of the great Malthusius, the vain ogre who’d died of slow poison administered by Mordecai’s own trusted hand. Smiling slightly at the memory, Mordecai concentrated on not slouching or limping as he strode to the head of the long table that dominated the room. When he got there, a waiting servant silently pulled out the ornately carved high-backed chair that was reserved for the king or his representative. Without looking at the servant, Mordecai slowly sat down and placed his hands flat on the table before him.
“My lords,” he breathed.
From around the table came respectful nods and murmurs of “Your Grace.” Mordecai accepted their greetings with an air of polite distance, then bid them be silent with a nonchalant flick of his fingers.
The great lords of the kingdom fell silent at once.
Mordecai’s dark heart swelled with satisfaction. “There are several matters I would like us to address,” he began. “First, earlier this day I spoke with my ward, His Majesty the King. Among other things, we discussed the need to raze the slum that encroaches upon the north wall of the palace. It is a veritable stew of filth and disease, and the king agrees—as I know you will, my lords—that we cannot risk his precious health by its proximity.”
The noblemen nodded dutifully.
“Excellent,” said Mordecai. “Since we are all in agreement, I shall see to it that within the week, soldiers are sent into the slum to roust the population and burn their pestilent shacks to the ground.”
“And what then, Your Grace?” asked Lord Bartok, stroking his trim silver beard. “Surely you don’t mean to allow the slum’s lowborn inhabitants to roam the streets of our fair city, begging for food and searching for another place to set up housekeeping, such as it is?”
Mordecai managed not to flinch at Lord Bartok’s emphasis of the term “lowborn”—but only just barely. “Of course they shan’t be allowed to roam the streets,” he said evenly. “They shall be sent where they are needed.”
Or they shall be raised to New Men, that they might pledge loyalty to me alone and thereafter join the ranks of my personal army, he added in his mind.
“Your Grace, do you not fear another revolt like the one so recently put down?” inquired a troublemaking minor lord by the name of Pembleton. Having recently come to court after having inherited his seat at the Council table from his dead father, he did not as yet appear to grasp either the subtleties of court politics or the importance of showing due deference to the Regent.
“I fear nothing,” replied Mordecai flatly. “I do not doubt for a moment that the slum’s inhabitants will consider making trouble, but the simple fact is that they will comply or be killed. In all the long years I have ruled this kingdom on behalf of His Majesty King Finnius, I have found that those sorts of terms generally have a calming effect on even the most base and recalcitrant of subjects.”
Most of the noblemen chuckled at this, but not Lord Pembleton.
“I cannot believe that this was His Majesty’s idea,” he said with a frown.
“As ever, His Majesty is content to take my counsel,” replied Mordecai coolly.
“He’ll need to do more than take your counsel if he’s to be a true ruling king someday,” volunteered the fatally foolish Lord Pembleton.
“Indeed,” rumbled ponderous Lord Belmont, a lecherous glutton who laboured under the delusion that having ridiculously enormous shoulder pads sewn into his doublets somehow camouflaged his grossly distended belly. “To be a true ruling king, His Majesty will need to settle upon a fertile wife and get down to the business of getting down to the business. After all, the first job of any king is to do his duty between the sheets as well and as often as is necessary to give his loyal subjects a healthy heir. And, of course, to see to it that his beloved queen is too exhausted to complain when he starts ploughing other bean fields.”
The noblemen chuckled again, winking lewdly and nudging each other.
Mordecai’s heart beat faster.
It was the opening he had been waiting for.
“As it happens, my lords,” he said lightly, “the question of succession is another matter that the king and I discussed at some length this day.”
The men around the table instantly fell silent and eyed one another speculatively. The possibility that the king might name one of their sons as heir—or marry and get a child upon one of their daughters—was never far from their minds.
Pretending not to notice their darting glances, Mordecai licked his lips before continuing. “Unfortunately, the king has not yet expressed a willingness to marry, and I regret to inform you that he remains reluctant to name as heir any one of your sons for fear of offending the other great families and thus precipitating a battle for power in the event of his untimely demise.”
Some of the lords looked disappointed, but Lord Bartok stuck his aristocratic nose high in the air and haughtily said, “Such a thing would never happen, Your Grace. The men you see before you are of noble blood— we would all of us pledge our unquestioning loyalty to whomever the king chose to name as heir.”
Mordecai’s heart beat faster still. He knew perfectly well that Lord Bartok believed his own eldest son, Atticus, was most likely to be named heir in the absence of a true-begotten royal child and that he therefore believed he was laying a clever trap for the other great lords. The truth, however, was that he, himself, was about to become as ensnared as they.
“Is this true, my lords?” asked Mordecai doubtfully. “Would you truly pledge unquestioning loyalty to whomever the king chose to name as heir?”
Since most of them suspected that they were being led into a trap by the more powerful Lord Bartok, most of them hesitated, but in the end, there was no help for it. They could not openly suggest that they were unwilling to support the king’s choice, for to do so would be tantamount to treason.
Reluctantly, they all nodded.
Mordecai had to bite his lip to keep from shouting out in triumph. “In that case,” he said, “I feel compelled to advise you that, as it happens, the king has repeatedly mentioned to me the name of one whom he would name as heir.”
Breathlessly, all the lords sat forward, eager as hounds on point.
“Who
is it?” demanded Lord Bartok, clenching his hands as though he wanted to reach across the table and shake the information out of the Regent. “Who is the king considering naming as heir?”
“Me,” lied Mordecai.
For a long moment, the lords just stared at him.
“But … but you’re not of royal birth,” that insufferable buffoon Lord Pembleton finally blurted. “You’re not even of noble birth!”
Mordecai swallowed hard to keep his rage in check. “I, of course, am aware of that,” he said evenly, “but as His Majesty insists upon reminding me, for almost sixteen years I have ruled this kingdom on his behalf, and there is not one among you who has not profited from my efforts. The king seems to feel that this should inspire in each of you a personal loyalty to me quite beyond the loyalty you have all vowed to unquestioningly pledge to whomever he chooses to name as heir.” Mordecai shrugged as if to say that it was difficult to argue with the king’s logic in this regard. “Add to this the fact that I have a large and powerful army of loyal New Men at my disposal, and I suppose that I begin to see why the king feels it would be in the best interest of the realm to name me as heir.”
Most of the lords continued to stare at him blankly, but not Lord Pembleton.
“But you’re not of noble birth!” he repeated, as though Mordecai had somehow missed this vital fact. “And forgive me, Your Grace, but you’re much too old to be named the heir of such a young king. And what’s more, you’re a … you’re a.…”
He broke off then, but Mordecai knew full well what he’d been about to say. He’d been about to say that Mordecai was a cripple.
A cripple!
“Your Grace,” interjected Lord Bartok smoothly, before the blundering Lord Pembleton could do any further damage, “I am sure that I speak on behalf of my fellow lords when I say that I would be honoured to pledge my loyalty to you as heir to the throne.”
Mordecai was so surprised by this unexpected declaration of support that his outrage melted like butter in the sun. Thrilled quite beyond words and more touched than he would have thought possible, Mordecai placed his withered hand upon his heart and nodded graciously to all the lords except Pembleton.
“However,” continued Lord Bartok, after Mordecai had finished nodding his thanks to all, “the unfortunate truth is that the Erok people have never had a king of … shall we say … less than noble birth.” He smiled apologetically at Mordecai, as though the subject of his low birth was an embarrassment to them both. “That is not to say that it would not be possible, of course—it is merely to say that we will need to do much research and studying on the matter in the hope of finding precedence or other support for what the king proposes.”
As he was speaking, some of the other lords nodded importantly and tugged at their beards; others smiled imperceptibly and whispered among themselves. Lord Pembleton looked utterly baffled, as though he’d just woken up and discovered himself sitting on the moon.
Mordecai slowly took his hand away from his heart, feeling like a fool and hating them all. “I am sure that the king will be shocked and disappointed by your unwillingness to pledge your loyalty as he sees fit,” he said tightly. “I know he had hoped to settle this matter promptly.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Bartok silkily, “if I was able to speak with the king privately on the matter of succession—”
“No,” said Mordecai flatly. “As Lord Regent, I forbid it. The king’s cough has worsened of late. I will not have him pestered.”
“But he is the king,” said Lord Bartok, spreading his hands wide. “It is his duty to make a decision in this matter.”
“He has made a decision!” bellowed Mordecai, slapping the table so hard that his gnarled hand sang with pain. “What remains is for this Council to agree to honour it!” Then—abruptly realizing how very common he sounded, letting his temper get the best of him—he took a deep breath, smiled as disarmingly as he knew how and added in a murmur, “Of course, if you believe it necessary to undertake research in order to feel comfortable honouring the king’s decision, my lords, you have my blessing to proceed with all due haste.”
The noblemen—some of them exchanging inscrutable sideways glances—nodded and waited for Mordecai to dismiss them. When he’d done so, they pushed back their chairs, stood and began filing from the room. Mordecai sat rigid and unmoving in his high-backed chair, watching them go and wishing he could cut them down to size right there and then. But he couldn’t, of course, because without their declared support the king would never dream of naming him heir. Instead, he had to content himself with calling Lord Pembleton back to congratulate him heartily for having had the courage to speak his mind during the Council meeting and to ask him how his only son was faring. Lord Pembleton beamed and said that the young man was faring very well indeed, his wife having recently been delivered of their first child, a boy.
“Ah,” crooned Mordecai, smiling faintly. “How sweet.”
TWELVE
EVEN BEFORE HE RECOVERED from the shock of being bashed aside by a drooling horse dragging a kicking, cursing girl, the flame-haired Gypsy giant at the tunnel entrance sent up a shrill, warbling cry of alarm. Instantly, every other Gypsy in the clearing sprang into action—drawing weapons and taking up defensive positions, cutting loose tethered livestock and flinging open cages and coops, scooping up startled children and fleeing toward the cover of the forest at the clearing’s edge.
As an oblivious Fleet came to a clattering halt in front of the pot full of cut turnips and a high-pitched yelp told Persephone that Cur had been captured—or worse—the commanding voice of a woman cut through the chaos: “Hold! Do not yet loose your arrows. Look—there, on the back of the beast. It is our own Azriel!”
Do not yet loose your arrows? thought Persephone. Frantically—and with great difficulty, owing to the fact that her now-aching fingers were still hopelessly caught in the cloth strips—she struggled to her freshly scraped knees that she might explain her business.
Before she could utter a word, however, something impossibly heavy landed on top of her, driving her face forward into the dirt and wrenching the shoulder of her trapped arm.
“Where are the others?” bellowed a voice in her ear. “What trap is this?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Persephone saw a lock of flame-coloured hair; at the tender flesh of her throat, she felt the sharp point of a dagger. “There are no others!” she protested, her voice muffled by the dirt. “It is no trap! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“You enter our camp through a secret passageway with a dead Gypsy slung over the back of your horse and tell me you’ve done nothing wrong?” roared the giant on her back.
“He’s not dead!” insisted Persephone, struggling as fiercely as she dared. “But he is dying! He hit his head … and nearly drowned … and took a poison arrow to the arm and—”
“You did these things!” accused the giant. “You and the New Men for whom you work!”
“No! You’re wrong! I did none of those things! I am … I am an angel of mercy!” gasped Persephone, recalling the words that Azriel had spoken in jest. The sudden memory of him slumped before her—grievously wounded but still smiling—caused something inside of her to snap. Heedless of the dagger at her throat, she curled the fingers of her free hand into claws, reached over her shoulder and took a vicious swipe at her captor’s eyes. “What kind of Gypsy are you that you would let your own bloody tribesman die, you overgrown red-headed lump?” she shouted. “Get off me and tend to him this instant or I’ll … I’ll—”
The words “up and give you a good, sound spanking” came to mind, but they caught in her throat when the giant—who still had her pinned to the ground by the back of her neck—gave a menacing growl and reared up behind her. Squeezing her eyes shut, Persephone waited to feel the cold steel of his dagger in her back, but it never came. Instead, she felt the cloth strip around her poor fingers drawn excruciatingly tight before suddenly falling free. And instead of hearing the s
ound of Azriel crashing headfirst to the ground, she heard the sound of him being lifted off Fleet’s back and hastily carried away.
“So,” boomed the giant, “I’m an overgrown red-headed lump, am I?”
Before Persephone could reply, the giant picked her up by the scruff of the neck as effortlessly as if she were a half-stuffed rag doll. Slamming her onto her feet with such force that her knees almost buckled, he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him.
Tossing her hair out of her face, Persephone was about to spit at him when he gave a strangled cry and released her so suddenly that she nearly fell over. Heart in her mouth, Persephone instinctively ducked down and looked around for the cause of the giant’s startling behaviour, but the only thing any of the Gypsies seemed to be looking at was her. And the expressions on their faces caused a wave of goose pimples to ride up one side of her and down the other. Halfway between terror and amazement, every single one of them looked as though they’d seen a ghost.
As if by mutual accord, the awestruck crowd parted and a woman slowly stepped forward. Neither young nor old, she wore a leather canister on a cord around her neck and was possessed of a beauty that seemed to have less to do with her fine features than with the strength that radiated from her like a desert heat wave. When she spoke, Persephone recognized her as the one who’d earlier saved her from being turned into a bloody pincushion.
“Who are you?” asked the woman searchingly.
“It is none of your business,” said Persephone, folding her arms across her chest. “Where is my dog?”
“With our dogs,” replied the woman. “What is your name?”
“What is your name?” said Persephone, glad to hear that her voice wasn’t shaking half as much as her knees were.
“My name is Cairn. How did you come to be with our Azriel?”
“What does it matter?” said Persephone, who had no intention of revealing that she was a slave, bought and paid for, even if it was by a Gypsy outlaw who had no right to own anybody. “I should think that all you need to know is that I risked my life and the lives of my animals to bring your tribesman to safety.”
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