The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  The truth.

  THIRTY-TWO

  LATER THAT SAME NIGHT, as he slowly made his way down the weeping, winding stone steps to the dungeon, Mordecai lamented yet again the necessity of having the place quite so deep beneath the castle. True, it spared him having to listen to the tiresome noises of those being questioned or punished, and it ensured that his guests never left except under armed escort or in pieces— knowledge that invariably added to both their terror and their willingness to cooperate—but still. The narrow, slippery stairs were treacherous, Mordecai suffered from the dampness, it smelled atrocious and there was always something scuttling about in the darkness.

  As he continued down the torch-lit staircase, grimacing from time to time as yet another well-fed rat ambled to one side to let him pass, Mordecai thought about the evening that had just passed. Obviously, he’d been murderous when the king had informed him that he’d not be dining in private with Lady Bothwell—not only because the king had dared to interfere in his personal life, but also because the royal fool had obviously conceived an affection for the lady, and Mordecai could not imagine how he, withered and twisted as he was, would ever be able to compete romantically with such a strong and handsome young king.

  But then the most extraordinary thing had happened: in a court where ambitious young noblewomen routinely flopped onto their backs if the king so much as looked at them sideways, Lady Bothwell had chosen instead to make it clear that she had not conceived such an affection for the king as he had for her. Oh, she’d been polite and attentive enough to the king, Mordecai supposed, but no more polite or attentive than she’d been to him. Less polite and attentive, actually, because she’d gone to special effort to offer him choice morsels off her own plate—something she hadn’t bothered to do for the king. Moreover, when the king had gotten up to dance, she had demurred, saying that she was yet bruised from her fall. Ha! Even now, Mordecai could hardly keep from laughing aloud at the king’s gullibility. Of course that was not the reason she had refused him—obviously, she had refused him because she knew it was her duty to sit quietly beside her future husband! And when the king had returned to beg her to reconsider, she’d played the perfect courtier, catering to his vanity and filling his head with empty promises.

  Truly, she was a woman without equal.

  With that happy thought, Mordecai finally reached the bottom of the stairs. There, his happy thought vanished at the sound of something far bigger than a rat scurrying toward him. Suddenly afraid, he was about to try to lurch back up the stairs when two filthy, hooded slaves—each carrying an empty burlap sack—burst out of the mouth of one of the darkened corridors leading away from the place where the crippled Regent now stood.

  “Halt!” he barked, panting and clutching his heart. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The slaves—who, an instant earlier, had looked as though they thought Satan himself was after them— looked considerably more terrified now.

  “F-f-feeding the p-p-prisoners, Your G-g-grace!” stammered one. “W-we was s-s-sent d-d-down wif s-ssacks of b-b—”

  “Bread, fool,” interrupted Mordecai, despising a world that gave a useless, babbling moron like this two strong legs and a straight back and allowed one such as himself to remain a cripple. Still breathing heavily, he stared at the man and his companion with undisguised loathing. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he finally snarled. “A cell of your own?”

  Without a word—and with the quickness of small animals accustomed to narrow escapes—the two hooded slaves darted past Mordecai and disappeared up the stairs.

  Sourly, Mordecai watched them go. Then he shuffled into the mouth of the corridor in front of him. After some paces, he came to a heavy wooden door. Ignoring the guard who jumped to attention and reached for the handle, the Regent pulled open the door himself and continued lurching along through the gloom—ignoring other guards and passing through other doors, sometimes turning this way, sometimes turning that way, always humming tunelessly to himself and paying no mind whatsoever to the whispered pleas and promises that issued from the fetid cells lining the corridors, or to the bony hands that poked through the tiny, barred windows to claw after him.

  By and by, he arrived at his destination. He was about to order the guard to push open the heavy door when he heard the big Khan talking. It had been months since the wretch had done more than laugh like the insolent tribal dog he was—months in which he’d renewed his old game of toying with Mordecai and Murdock. Of smiling knowingly when they asked for the ten thousandth time what Balthazar had told him of the healing Pool of Genezing back when the two had been friends enjoying the hospitality of the ill-fated old King Malthusius.

  Now, Mordecai stood very still and listened to him speak.

  “ … How about you just tell me your name, then,” he suggested in a voice ragged from disuse.

  No answer.

  “Come now, lad,” he said gruffly. “By my reckoning we’ve been roommates for somewhere between a day and three. You can’t still be frightened of me. Is it my hair? Is that what’s bothering you? Shall I smooth it down for you?”

  Upon hearing the rattle of chains followed by a grunt of apparent satisfaction, Mordecai scowled impatiently. As a race, the dirty, smelly Khan placed no stock whatsoever in personal hygiene at the best of times; this particular fool had been shackled to the wall for years, wallowing in his own filth, unable to pick his nose, let alone tend to the matted mess he called hair. What on earth was he doing?

  Mordecai heard a faint noise. Then, softly: “My name is Mateo.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mateo,” grunted the big Khan. “My name is Barka. I am a Prince of the Khan. Do you know who the Khan are?”

  No answer.

  “We are a great warrior people who live high upon the snowy mountains with our wonderful woolly sheep,” explained Barka proudly. “I suppose you’re a Gypsy?”

  No answer.

  “I tell you, Mateo, I once had a good friend who was a Gypsy. Name of Balthazar—he was your very own ambassador to Parthania back before it all went bad. Kind of a big-headed imbecile, if you don’t mind me saying— going on as he did about healing waters. Mind you, he died as brave a death as any man I’ve ever known, and you must always remember that there is great honour in dying well, Mateo. Great honour,” said Barka, his voice thickening. He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat and cheerfully said, “Would you tell me a story, Mateo?”

  To Mordecai’s utter amazement, the caged Gypsy brat actually laughed. “You’re the grownup,” he said in his chalksoft voice. “You’re supposed to tell me a story.”

  “What!” exclaimed the Khan. “Who says? I’ve never heard—”

  Irritated by the useless turn the conversation had taken, Mordecai ordered the guard to push open the door so that he could step into the stifling room. At the sight of him, the Khan and the child fell silent. The Gorgishman in the hanging cage hissed loudly and bared his crowded teeth. Wordlessly, Mordecai considered his options. He had intended to work on the child tonight, but now he wasn’t so sure. After all, although the blood of young Gypsies had marvellous rejuvenating properties, he’d more or less concluded that no matter what the formulation, it simply lacked the power to heal his terrible deformities. As he’d told Murdock, he’d come to believe that finding the Pool of Genezing was his only real hope. And as the Khan Barka had so helpfully pointed out, he’d been Balthazar’s good friend. If he was in a talkative mood, there was always the chance that, with proper encouragement, he’d finally let something useful slip.

  The Gypsy could wait.

  Decision made, Mordecai shuffled over to the neatly arranged table of implements and picked up a small pair of pliers. His heavy, bobbing head filled with exciting thoughts of how Lady Bothwell would lust after him if his body were as beautiful as his face, he lurched across the room to stand in front of the Khan Barka. “Tell me what you know of the location of the Pool of Genezing,” he ordered.

&nbs
p; For a moment, the big tribesman said nothing. Then he began to laugh derisively.

  Nodding placidly, Mordecai lifted the pliers and went to work.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “I WOULD NOT LIVE the life of a king for all the diamonds in the Mines of Torodania,” announced Azriel the next morning, as he stood with his hands on his hips watching Persephone excitedly adjust her plumed hat in anticipation of the arrival of the king, who’d sent word shortly after first light that he wished to spend the day with her.

  “Yes,” said Persephone, smiling at his reflection in the looking glass. “The life of a king would be a terrible thing, indeed. Beautiful clothes and fine food, courtiers hanging on your every word, attendants leaping to attend your every need—who would want to suffer such a fate?”

  “Not me,” said Azriel, refusing to rise to the bait, “for I should not like to walk through life pampered and blind, not knowing who loved me and who merely loved my crown.” Stepping forward, he leaned down and brought his head so close to hers that their cheeks were nearly touching. Gazing at her reflection in the looking glass, he murmured, “No, the life I’d choose would be a simpler one by far—a plot of land to call my own, a pretty little thatch-roofed cottage, a yard full of scratching chickens. A well-tended garden. A fat pig to slaughter each autumn that I might be kept in bacon and sausages all winter; enough grain to make my bread and beer. Sturdy homespun shirts and a soft, clean bed of feathers. Good candles and plenty of them. An apple orchard, perhaps, and a pond stocked with fish—and an oak tree with a swing hung from a low branch so that on warm summer days I could push my clever wife and later, our babies. Music and laughter each day—and the knowledge that it would all be there tomorrow, and for a thousand tomorrows thereafter.”

  The picture he painted was so utterly seductive that for a moment, Persephone could do nothing but stare at his reflection. “But … but you’re not even a farmer!” she finally spluttered, feeling exasperated for reasons she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “I know,” murmured Azriel, his eyes never leaving hers. “That is why I would need a very clever wife—one who is good with animals and knows something of the business of farming. And that is why I would like to ask you.…”

  Heart thudding hard, Persephone swivelled to face him.

  “To let me know if you ever meet a woman who fits the bill,” he concluded with a satisfied smile.

  Persephone blinked in surprise, then scowled. “You are a beast,” she muttered, giving him a smack in the belly.

  Azriel grunted, then laughed. “Enjoy your day with the king, my lady.”

  After her unsettling conversation with Azriel, Persephone did not think she’d be able to enjoy her day with King Finnius, but she could not have been more wrong, for he was the most perfect companion. He seemed to enjoy the garden almost as much as she did, and they spent several wonderful hours winding their way along the many paths—admiring the colourful blooms, breathing in the heady fragrances and poking little frogs with blades of grass for the fun of seeing them leap from their lily pads and disappear beneath the ponds’ sparkling surfaces. With their chaperone, Moira, trailing at a distance that allowed them the illusion of privacy, they tossed crumbs to the fish and birds, and the king entertained Persephone with vivid descriptions of the many wondrous festivities that were being planned in honour of his birthday. When his cough troubled him, the two of them briefly lay down on the thick carpet of grass and watched Ivan perform loop-the-loops overhead. And when they visited the stables, the king did not seem to find it at all strange when “Lady Bothwell” formally forgave Lucifer (the moody mare ignored her), chatted with the chickens and laughed at the goats who tried to chew the bows off the hem of her gown.

  “And when Cur tried to bite him he didn’t have a single unkind word to say to him,” said Persephone breathlessly when she returned to her chambers in the early afternoon to change into a fresh gown.

  “Cur tried to bite him?” said Azriel, gazing fondly at the dog for the first time.

  “Yes,” said Persephone as Cur snarled and snapped his teeth at Azriel. “That is why I’m going to leave him locked in here for the afternoon.”

  “Perhaps you should stay locked in here, as well,” suggested Azriel, “for with one notable exception, I have always found Cur to be an excellent judge of character. If he thinks the king is a dastardly rogue—”

  “I’m sorry, Azriel, but could you please call Martha and the sisters to help me dress?” interrupted Persephone, who did not appear to be paying very close attention to him. “I know they are busy sewing costumes for the birthday pageant, but the king says he has a surprise for me that I shan’t receive unless I return to him promptly.”

  “A surprise?” sniffed Azriel. “Probably some hideously ugly piece of overpriced jewellery plucked from the royal coffers by one of his lackeys.”

  “I doubt it,” laughed Persephone, “for already this day he has surprised me with a yellow rose to tuck behind my ear, a newborn kitten to hold against my cheek, a waxy comb of fresh honey and a piece of fruit I’d never seen before. Hideously ugly overpriced jewellery does not seem to be his style.”

  “If you say so,” muttered Azriel darkly.

  “Martha and the sisters?” reminded Persephone, with a tiny flick of her fingers.

  “Oh, very well,” he huffed.

  The afternoon with the king was at least as enjoyable as the morning had been. With exaggerated care, King Finnius led Persephone down the precariously steep path to the royal docks. There, he gave her a tour of his glittering golden barge and pointed out the treacherous sea caves that dotted the cliff behind them. Together, they explored the rocky beach, marvelling at the strange creatures in the salty tidal pools and returning to the sea the occasional gasping, flopping fish that had been stranded by the low tide. Late in the afternoon, hunger finally drove them back to the palace. They sat in the garden and filled their bellies with honeyed pastries and cream, and afterward, Persephone delighted the king by joining in a game of cards and winning a small fortune in white beans from Moira.

  It was nearly time for supper when Persephone finally made it back to her chamber. To her surprise, it appeared empty.

  “Azriel?” she called cautiously. “Cur?”

  A harsh whisper from behind the screen near the cold fireplace was followed by a vicious snarl.

  Silently sidling a few more steps into the room, Persephone picked up a wrought-iron candlestick holder that she judged heavy enough to bash out the brains of any intruder. As she did so, Azriel and Cur suddenly stepped out from behind the screen.

  At the sight of them, Persephone’s thickly lashed violet eyes grew as wide as trenchers. For Azriel was covered in a host of fresh scratches and bite marks, while Cur.…

  Cur was positively gleaming!

  There was not a single burr in his ears, not a single tangle in his tail, no evidence whatsoever of ticks and fleas. His long, matted fur had been washed, trimmed and brushed to a luxuriant shine, and it appeared as though even his toenails had been cut.

  Most remarkable of all, he was wearing a large pink bow around his neck.

  Dropping the candlestick holder, Persephone clapped both hands over her mouth and laughed aloud. “Azriel, what on earth possessed you to give Cur a bath?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered with a self-conscious shrug. “I thought he did not look the part of a noble hound and … and I suppose I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, you certainly did that!” said Persephone, laughing even harder as Cur twisted his head in a futile attempt to tear off the emasculating bow.

  “I used your claw-footed tub,” continued Azriel in an embarrassed voice. “I also used your brush, your scissors and the last of your rose-scented bath oil. Oh, and I cut the bow off of one of your gowns.” Shifting from foot to foot, he said, “Well? What do you think?”

  Looking at Azriel, so tall and broad and handsome (and wet and scratched and bitten), Persephone though
t that a man like this was almost enough to make an ignorant slave girl forget that she had dreams of freedom and a destiny that was not tied to the hopes of a hunted people.

  Almost enough—but not quite.

  The Fates never give but that they take away.

  Feeling a sudden, dull ache in her chest, Persephone walked over to where Azriel stood awaiting her judgment. Laying a hand against his cheek, she said, “What you have done here this day is the sweetest, kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, Azriel, and I swear to you that whatever happens, I shall not forget it.”

  Smiling like a pirate, Azriel slid his hands around her waist, dipped his head and whispered, “Does this mean that if I find myself tempted to crawl into your bed at some point during this night that I need not imagine myself a blind, fingerless eunuch?”

  “No,” said Persephone, staring at his beautiful lips, so close to hers.

  “How about just blind and fingerless?” suggested Azriel.

  Almost without meaning to, Persephone leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. Her body’s reaction was instantaneous and explosive. “Blind, fingerless and a eunuch,” she promised breathlessly, stepping away from him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Absolutely,” she lied as she forced herself to take another step back. “Now, go away. I need to get ready for supper.”

  For the second night in a row, Persephone supped in the Great Hall with King Finnius on her left-hand side and the Regent Mordecai on her right. This time, however, though she was once again careful to show the Regent due deference and to pass him some of the choicer morsels from her plate, Persephone could feel the blistering heat of his anger. She could not say if it was directed toward her or toward the laughing young king who ever commanded her attention, but she feared it nonetheless.