“The High Warlock worries me,” said Blays. “What if he and the Champion decide to overthrow Harald in favor of Rupert?”
“From what I remember of the High Warlock, he won’t give a damn who sits on the throne, as long as they do what he tells them. He never was much interested in politics.”
“And Rupert and the Champion?”
“The Champion has always been loyal to the eldest son,” said Darius slowly. “And he’s never had much time for Rupert. I don’t think the Champion will be a problem. In fact, with a little persuasion he might even take care of Rupert for us.”
He looked up, and realized Sir Guillam and Sir Bedivere were still standing. “Do sit down, gentlemen; you make the place look untidy.”
Guillam bobbed his head quickly, and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest him. He smiled briefly at Darius and Cecelia, as though apologizing for his presence, his pale blue eyes blinking nervously all the while. Bedivere stood at parade rest, his back straight and his hand near his swordhilt. He made no move to seat himself. Darius studied him narrowly. Bedivere had replaced his damaged chain mail and jerkin, and apart from a slight paleness to the face, no sign remained of the ordeal he’d suffered at the Astrologer’s hands. And yet, despite his calm features and relaxed stance, he was no more at ease than a cat waiting at a mousehole. There was a deadly stillness to the man, as though he was merely waiting for his next order to kill somebody. Who knows, thought Darius, maybe he is.
Blays brushed disdainfully at a length of cobweb clinging to his sleeve. “You really should do something about your bolthole, Darius; the acoustics are appalling and the walls are filthy.”
“It was also very draughty,” said Guillam petulantly. “The length of time you kept us waiting there, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught a chill. What is that place, anyway; the tunnel we were in seemed to go on for miles.”
“It does,” said Darius. “It’s a part of the air vents.” He sighed quietly as he took in the Landsgrave’s puzzled face, and decided he’d better explain, if only for the sake of good relations. “Sir Guillam, you must have already noticed that my chambers, like the majority of rooms in this Castle, have no windows. It is therefore vitally important to keep air circulating throughout the Castle, if it is not to turn bad and poison us all. The many vents and tunnels within the Castle walls are designed to draw in fresh air from the outside, and carry out the foul air. Over the years I’ve spent a great deal of time exploring and mapping the endless miles of air vents within the Castle; more than once they’ve proved an invaluable asset when it came to … gathering information.”
“I suppose it beats listening at keyholes,” said Blays sourly.
Darius smiled politely. “If nothing else, Sir Blays, you must admit that the air vents do provide an excellent escape route for us, should the need arise.”
“Maybe,” said Blays. “but you’d better do something about that bookcase door; it’s far too slow to open and close. In an emergency, it’d be no bloody use at all.”
Darius shrugged. “The counterweights are very old, and I lack the expertise to repair or replace them. As long as they still serve their purpose …”
“What about the migration?” said Blays suddenly. “Will that affect you?”
“I haven’t moved from these chambers in fifteen years,” said Darius calmly. “No one knows the secret of the book-case but you and I.”
“Migration?” said Guillam, frowning. “What migration?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said Blays. “Now, Darius …”
“I want to know now!” snapped Guillam.
Darius looked to Blays, expecting him to put the other Landsgrave in his place, but to Darius’s surprise, Blays swallowed his irritation and nodded curtly to Guillam. Interesting, thought Darius. It would appear Sir Blays isn’t as much in control of things as he’d like everyone to think.
“You have to remember,” said Blays to Guillam, patiently, “that because the interior of the Castle is so much greater than the exterior, it causes certain unique problems for the occupants. One is the lack of windows and fresh air. Another is that with so many layers of stone between the inner and the outer rooms, there can be extreme differences in temperature within the Castle. The thick stone walls retain heat, so that the innermost rooms are always the warmest. Thus, in summer the King and the higher members of High Society live on the outskirts of the Castle, where it’s coolest. When winter comes, they move to the center of the Castle, where it’s warmest. Those in the lower strata of Society live in a reverse manner. And those who hover somewhere between the two extremes, like Darius, don’t migrate at all. Is everything clear to you now, Sir Guillam?”
“It sounds very complicated,” said Guillam.
“It is,” said Darius. “That’s why the timing of our rebellion is so important. With the migration well under way, the general confusion will work to our advantage.”
“Thank you,” said Guillam politely. “I understand now.”
“Then perhaps we could please get down to business,” said Darius heavily. “We do have a great deal to discuss.”
“Like what?” said Blays. “Our orders were to insult and isolate the King and sound out Prince Harald, and we’ve done that. Far as I’m concerned, the sooner we’re out of here, the better. I don’t like the company I’m keeping these days.”
“We were also ordered to be discreet,” snapped Guillam, flushing slightly. “Now, thanks to Bedivere’s stupidity, the King is bound to go ahead with the drawing of the Curtana!”
“He would have, anyway,” said Blays.
“Not necessarily! We might have talked him out of it!” Guillam shook his head in disgust. “At least you kept your wits about you, Darius. If the King agrees to the Curtana’s destruction, we might come out of this ahead yet.”
“You really think the King will give up the Curtana?” asked Blays incredulously.
“I don’t know! Maybe. If we can keep this muscle-bound oaf on a leash, perhaps …”
“Oh, stop whining,” said Bedivere. Guillam spluttered wordlessly, outraged, and then Bedivere turned and looked at him. “Be quiet,” said Bedivere, and Guillam was. The crimson glare burned openly in Bedivere’s eyes, and Guillam could feel all color draining from his face. His hands were trembling, and his mouth was suddenly very dry. Bedivere smiled coldly, and the madness faded slowly from his eyes, or at least as much as it ever did.
“You’ll never come closer,” he said softly, and then he turned away from the shattered Landsgrave, and once again stared off into the distance at something only he could see.
Darius studied the silently brooding warrior a moment, and then took his hand away from his poisoned dagger. He sighed quietly. Berserkers were all very well in battle, but there was no place for them in councils of war. When Darius had first been told of Sir Bedivere, having a Landsgrave who could double as an assassin had seemed like a good idea, but now he wasn’t so sure. The man was clearly out of anyone’s control, and once the rebellion was over, he’d have to go. Assuming Bedivere held together that long …
“This meeting that Harald wants,” said Blays suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. “Is it possible?”
“I suppose so,” said Darius, “But it’s a hell of a risk. I don’t like the idea of all of us gathered together in one place; if anyone should betray us …”
“You can always post men-at-arms to see that we’re not disturbed.”
Darius sighed resignedly. “Very well. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it,” said Blays shortly. “Just do it.”
There was a slight pause.
“Would anyone like a glass of wine?” asked Cecelia. Blays and Guillam shook their heads. Bedivere ignored her.
“I suppose King John does have to die?” said Blays slowly, and everyone looked at him.
“You know he does,” said Guillam. “As long as he’s alive, he’s a knife at our throats. There’d alway
s be someone plotting to put him back on the throne. He has to die.”
“But if Harald ever suspects …”
“He won’t,” said Darius. “King John will be killed during the initial fighting, while Harald is occupied elsewhere. Bedivere will do it, in such a way as to throw suspicion on the Astrologer.”
Bedivere stirred. “Do I get to kill him as well?”
“We’ll see,” said Darius, and Bedivere smiled briefly.
“I’ve known John a good many years,” said Blays. “He’s not been a bad King, as Kings go.”
“As far as our masters are concerned,” said Guillam, “A good King is one who obeys the Barons.”
“Times change,” said Blays sourly, “And we change with them.” He shook his head, and slumped back in his chair.
“John has to die,” said Guillam. “It’s for the best, in the long run.”
“I know that,” said Blays. “My loyalty is to Gold, as it has always been. By theatening to draw the Curtana, John threatens my master. I can’t allow that.”
“No more can any of us,” said Guillam.
“It’s a pity, though,” said Blays. “I always liked John.”
“He has to die,” said Darius, and there was enough bitterness in his voice that all three Landsgraves looked at him curiously.
“What have you got against John?” asked Blays. “Your fellow traitors I can understand; they’re in it for the power, or the money, or a chance to settle old scores. But you …”
“We’re patriots,” said Darius coldly.
Blays smiled. “They might be, but you’re not. You’re in this for your own reasons.”
“If I am,” said Darius, “that’s my business, not yours.”
There was a ragged whisper of steel on leather as Bedivere swiftly drew his sword and set its point at Darius’s throat.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” said Blays, smiling unpleasantly. “We can’t have that, can we?”
“We need your fellow patriots to ensure that Harald’s Court will toe the line,” murmured Guillam, “But we don’t necessarily need you. When all is said and done, Darius, you are a go-between. Nothing more. And go-betweens shouldn’t keep things to themselves, should they? I really think you ought to tell us about these other reasons of yours.”
Darius met their gaze unyieldingly. A thin rivulet of blood ran down his neck as Bedivere pressed lightly with his sword. For a moment the tableau held, with no one giving way. Blays and Guillam exchanged a glance, and Guillam nodded at the terrified Lady Cecelia. Blays grabbed a handful of her hair and bent her head sharply back. Both her screams and her struggles ceased abruptly as Guillam pressed a dagger against her throat. She started to whimper, and then stopped as the blade cut into her skin.
“Well?” said Blays.
“I wanted revenge,” said Darius, so quietly that it took the Landsgraves a moment to understand what he’d said. Blays gestured for Guillam to put away his dagger, and released Cecelia. Bedivere took his sword away from Darius’s throat, but made no move to sheath it.
“I never wanted to be Minister for War,” said Darius. “I inherited the post from my father. No one gave a damn what I wanted to do with my life; nobody cared that I had no training or inclination for the work. I could have been a sorcerer; I had the talent. I had the power. The Sorcerers’ Academy offered me a place even before I reached a man’s years. But the King and my father wouldn’t allow me to go. I would be the next Minister for War, and that was all there was to it.
“I did my best, to begin with, but somehow my best was never good enough, so after a while I just stopped trying. And the King and the Astrologer and the Champion have taken it in turns to insult and ridicule me because I’m no good at a job I never wanted, anyway. After the rebellion, Harald will probably grant me whatever post I want, but that isn’t why I’ve done all this. I want revenge. I want revenge for all the years of abuse I’ve suffered, for all the insults I’ve had to swallow. I want to see everyone who ever laughed at me broken and humbled.”
“You will,” said Blays. “You will.”
“I want to see the King die!”
Bedivere chuckled darkly, and sheathed his sword. Darius nodded his thanks shakily, and then reached out and took Cecelia’s hand as she ran over to kneel beside his chair. A spot of blood stained the high collar of her dress, from where Guillam’s dagger had nicked her throat. Blays rose to his feet.
“I don’t see the need for any further discussion. Lord Darius, arrange for a meeting between Prince Harald and your fellow patriots. The sooner he commits himself to our cause, the better. And make sure everyone attends. It’s time we sorted out our friends from our enemies.” Blays smiled coldly. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what to do if anyone tried to betray us to the King.”
“I’ll take care of any problems,” said Darius.
“I’m sure you will. Good night, my Lord and Lady. Sleep well.”
He bowed slightly, and then turned and left. Guillam and Bedivere followed him out. The door swung slowly shut after them. Cecelia waited a moment to be sure they’d really gone, and then made a rude gesture at the door.
“They think they’re so smart,” she said, dismissing the Landsgraves with a contemptuous sniff. “By the time you’ve finished working on Harald, you’ll be the power behind the throne, not the Barons.”
Darius patted her hand soothingly. “Let them think they’re in charge for the time being, my dear. It does no harm, and it keeps the Barons happy.”
“And after the rebellion?”
“Afterwards, it shouldn’t be too difficult to prove to Harald who really killed his father …”
Cecelia laughed, and clapped her hands together impishly. “And with the Landsgraves discredited, who else can he turn to for support, but us? Darius, dear heart, you’re a genius.”
Darius smiled, and sipped at his wine. “Have you been able to entice Harald into your bed yet?”
“Not yet.”
Darius raised a plucked eyebrow. “Are you losing your touch, my dear?”
Cecelia chuckled earthily. “I’m beginning to wonder. Court gossip has it that he’s infatuated with the Princess Julia. I suspect the novelty of a woman who knows how to say no intrigues him. Still, he’ll get over that. And I’ll have him in my bed if I have to drag him.” She frowned thoughtfully. “King Harald. It sounds well enough, and with us behind him he’ll be great in spite of himself.”
“I wonder,” said Darius softly. “We’re taking a lot on ourselves. If anything should go wrong …”
“Dear cautious Darius,” said Cecelia. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. You’ve planned it all so carefully. What could go wrong now?”
“I don’t know,” said Darius. “But no scheme’s perfect.”
Cecelia sighed, rose to her feet, and brushed her lips across Darius’s forehead. “It’s been a trying evening, dear. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Ah yes; how is Gregory?”
“Still having problems from when Julia hurt him, but I’m helping to cure that.”
Darius chuckled, and Cecelia smiled at him affectionately. “Dear Darius. Sometimes I wish …”
“I’m sorry,” said Darius. “But you know I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing.”
“It was just a thought,” said Cecelia. “We make a good team though, don’t we?”
“Of course,” said Darius. “Brains and beauty; an unbeatable combination. Good night, my dear.”
“Good night,” said Cecelia, and hurried off to her tryst.
Darius sat quietly in his chair, thinking of the meeting he had to plan for the Prince Harald. There was much to do.
What the hell am I doing here? Thought Julia as she followed the Seneschal down yet another dimly lit corridor, but she already knew the answer. With so many worries and problems crowding her head, she’d had to find something to do, or go crazy. The Seneschal’s expedition to rediscover the lost South Wing had seemed a heaven-
sent opportunity, but she was beginning to have her doubts. She’d been walking for what seemed like hours, mostly in circles, through what had to be the most boring corridors Julia had ever seen. She was beginning to think the Seneschal was doing it on purpose.
He hadn’t seemed all that pleased to see her when she’d first approached him about the expedition, but then, the Seneschal rarely seemed pleased about anything. Tall, painfully thin and prematurely bald, his aquiline features were permanently occupied by doubt, worry, and a frantic desire to get as much done as possible before everything fell apart around him. He was in his mid-thirties, looked twenty years older, and didn’t give a damn. His faded topcoat had seen better days, and his boots looked as though they hadn’t been polished in years. He was fussy, pedantic, and bad-tempered, and those were his good points, but he was also the best damn tracker the Castle had ever known, so everybody made allowances. Lots of them. When Julia first found him, he was scowling at a large and complex map, while a dozen heavily armed guards waited impatiently and practiced looking evil. One of the guardsmen spotted Julia approaching, and tapped the Seneschal on the arm. He looked up and saw Julia, and his face fell.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“I’ve come to join your expedition,” said Julia brightly, and then watched interestedly as the Seneschal rolled up his eyes and shook his fists at the ceiling.
“It’s not enough the maps are hopelessly out of date. It’s not enough that my deadline’s been brought forward a month. It’s not enough that I’ve been given twelve neanderthals in chain mail as my guard! No! On top of all that, I get landed with the Princess Julia as well! Forget it! I’m not standing for it! I am the Seneschal of this Castle and I will not stand for it!”
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 19
