“You really think they’ll be a problem?” Darius frowned thoughtfully. “With Lord Vivian as High Commander of the Guard …”
“The Royal Guard will still support King John,” said Blays flatly. “They’re loyal to the King, himself—almost fanatically so. The other guardsmen might or might not obey Lord Vivian rather than the King; more likely they’d hang back and wait to see which way the wind blows. No, my dear Darius; we need a weapon strong enough to ensure our safety against all attacks, no matter which quarter they might come from. Luckily, there are such weapons available to us, now that the Armory has been reopened.”
Darius looked sharply at Blays. “You’re talking about stealing the Infernal Devices.”
“Exactly.”
Darius stared into his wine glass. “Curtana’s bad enough, Blays. I don’t think I’d trust any man who wielded one of the Damned blades. Those swords are evil.”
“It’s a little late to be getting particular, Darius. Look around you; out of all the Castle, barely three hundred people have turned out to openly support us. There should have been five times that number. Even with all that’s happened, most of the Court are still loyal to the King. Or at least, they’re more frightened of his wrath than they are of ours. We’re going to need every weapon we can lay our hands on, and that includes the Infernal Devices. It’s too late to get soft now, Darius.”
Darius raised his glass and drank steadily until it was empty, still not looking at Blays. When he finally lowered the glass and spoke, his voice was calm and even. “Very well, Sir Blays. But I’ll not wield one of those blades. Not for the throne itself and all the Forest Land.”
“I never intended that you should,” said Blays.
Darius stared at him a moment, and then bowed formally and walked away. Sir Guillam and Sir Bedivere came over to join Sir Blays.
“The noble Lord Darius doesn’t seem too happy,” said Guillam, smiling unpleasantly. “I do hope he isn’t going to be a problem.”
“He won’t be,” said Blays curtly. He didn’t bother to keep the disdain from his voice; he might have to work with Guillam, but he didn’t have to like him. Sir Guillam was such a nasty little man, when all was said and done. If he wasn’t so necessary to the Barons’ plans … Blays sighed regretfully, and then winced as Guillam’s gaze wandered over the more comely of the Ladies present, blatently undressing them with his eyes.
“Try to keep your gaze polite, dammit,” growled Blays. “We’re supposed to be persuading these people to our cause, not providing jealous husbands with grounds for a duel.”
Guillam sniggered, and drank deeply from his glass. His round, bland features were flushed, and his smile was ugly. “Now, now, Blays; we all have our preferences. In return for my services, the Barons promised me I could have anything I wanted. Anything, or anyone. Since I’ve been here at the Castle, I’ve seen the most delightful creature; such a sweet young thing … I want her, and I’m going to have her. I’m sure she’ll grow very fond of me, eventually.”
Blays looked away. What little he’d heard of Guillam’s private life had been enough to turn his stomach. It seemed the Landsgrave liked a little blood with his pleasures. And sometimes more than a little. Guillam stared hungrily at a tall and slender masked Lady as she and her husband stepped gracefully through the measures of a dance. She caught his eye, shuddered, and looked quickly away. Guillam licked his lips, and the husband glared at him.
“Damn you,” snarled Blays, “I told you …”
“I don’t take orders from you!” said Guillam fiercely. He turned suddenly to face Blays, a vicious little skinning knife in his hand. His mouth trembled petulantly, and his eyes were very bright. “I’m a Bladesmaster, and don’t you forget it! Without me, you’ll never control the Infernal Devices, and without them your precious rebellion hasn’t a hope in hell of succeeding. You need me, Blays; I don’t need you. My private life is none of your damn business! No one tells me what do do! Not you, or the Barons, or …”
A large hand closed over his, and squeezed. Guillam cried out with pain, and his face went white. Tears ran down his cheeks as Bedivere crushed his hand in an unyielding grip.
“You do anything to upset our plans,” said Sir Bedivere quietly, “and I’ll hurt you, little man. I’ll hurt you so badly you’ll never walk straight again.”
He let go, and Guillam cradled his wounded hand to his chest, sniffing sullenly.
“Afterwards,” said Sir Bedivere, “you can do whatever you like, you revolting little man. But not yet. Until Harald is securely on his throne, and safely under our control, you don’t do one damn thing that might jeopardize our mission. Is that clear?”
Guillam nodded quickly, and Bedivere turned away to stare calmly out over the milling throng. The crimson glare had already faded from his eyes, but the madness remained, as it always did.
Blays shook his head slowly as Guillam awkwardly made his knife disappear. Not for the first time, Blays wondered how he’d come to this, plotting treason against his King with a berserker and a pervert. It was all John’s fault, for being a weak King. If he’d been stronger, more capable, done what was so obviously needed, none of this would have been necessary. You should never have gone after the Curtana, John. Anything else, and we might still have struck a deal, but once you’d opened the Armory there was nothing more I could do for you. Harald would do better. He understood the realities of power. A strong King on the Forest throne, working with the Barons, not against them; that was what was needed. And then the Darkwood would be driven back, the demons destroyed, and everything would be the way it used to be. Everything.
Damn you, John! Damn you for making me a traitor!
Cecelia glided confidently through the loudly chattering crowd, making bright conversation with people she couldn’t stand, and smiling till her jaws ached. The air was growing dull and stuffy despite the Hall’s many air vents, and the constant roar of massed voices grated on Cecelia’s nerves till she thought she’d scream. Finally she decided enough was enough, and taking Gregory firmly by the arm, she led him forcibly off to the punch bowl, in search of a little peace and a very large drink.
“How many more do we have to talk to?” she demanded, gulping thirstily at her punch.
“As many as it takes,” said Gregory calmly. “We can’t afford to let anyone leave who isn’t a hundred percent convinced that it’s in his best interests to side with us.”
Cecelia emptied her glass and held it out to be refilled. “You know, Gregory; I can remember when I could dance and sing and drink all through the evening and on into the early hours of the morning, sleep for four hours, and still wake up bright-eyed and cheerful, ready to do it all again. Look at me now; I’ve only been here a few hours, and already I’m out on my feet. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Nonsense,” said Gregory gallantly.
“I am,” Cecelia insisted mournfully. “I’m forty-one, I’ve got a double chin, and my tits are sagging.”
“Rubbish,” said Gregory firmly. “You’re as young and lovely now as you’ve always been. I should know.”
Cecelia smiled, and leaned tiredly against the young guardsman’s chest. “Dear Gregory; you say the nicest things. I suppose that’s why I keep you around.”
“Not the only reason, surely.”
Cecelia chuckled earthily, and pushed herself away from him. “Later, dear; later. We have work to do.” And then she hesitated, and looked at him thoughtfully. “Gregory …”
“My Lady?”
“Why do you stay with me? You know I’ll never divorce Darius.”
“Yes,” said Gregory. “I know.”
“Do you love me?”
“Perhaps. What difference does it make, as long as we’re having a good time together? Worry about tomorrow when it comes; for now, we have each other, and I’ve never been happier. Never.”
Cecelia reached up, and taking his ears in her tiny hands, she pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him tende
rly. “Thank you, my dear,” she said quietly, and then let him go. “Now do me a favor and go and talk to those ghastly people for a while. I’m going to sit here and have a headache until I get my stamina back.”
Gregory nodded amiably, and strode manfully off into the milling crowd. Cecelia stared dubiously at the punch in her glass, and then shrugged and sipped daintily at it. One more glass wouldn’t hurt her. Darius came over to join her, mopping at his brow with a silk handkerchief that had seen better days.
“How are we doing?” he asked, looking longingly at the punch bowl.
“Not too bad,” said Cecelia. She offered him a sip from her glass, but he shook his head. “Don’t worry, Darius. Most of them are with us; the rest just need to be talked into doing what they want to do, anyway.”
“Let me know at once if anyone makes a move to leave.”
“Of course. I take it you have your poisoned dagger handy?”
“Of course. And the guards have their orders. No one gets out of here alive unless I vouch for them. We’ve come too far to risk being betrayed now. All our heads would roll.”
Cecelia nodded soberly, and shivered suddenly. She reached out a hand to Darius, but he was looking round the Hall at his guests. Cecelia let her hand drop, and moved to stand beside him. The dancers had become a trifle unsteady on their feet, but seemed to be making up in enthusiasm what they lacked in skill and timing. Voices were growing loud and raucous, and the ever-present laughter was boisterous and shrill by turns.
“We’ll be running out of wine soon,” said Cecelia. “When do we start the unmasking?”
“Soon, my dear; soon. It’s not something we can rush; it’s the first real sign of trust, the first committment to our cause. When I think they’re ready I’ll give you the signal, and we’ll both unmask. Once we’ve broken the ice, the rest will follow. I hope.”
“What if they don’t?” asked Cecelia quietly. “What if we haven’t convinced them?”
“We must,” said Darius, just as quietly. “If we don’t, we’ll be the ones who won’t leave here alive.”
Julia strode briskly down the brightly lit corridor, absently rubbing her bruised knuckles. No damn guardman was going to tell her which passageways she could and couldn’t use. No doubt he would regret his insulting tone of voice, when he finally woke up. Julia grinned, and then stopped and peered cautiously about her. She could have sworn she heard something … She looked back the way she’d come, but nothing moved in the shadows between the torches. Julia shrugged, and continued on down the corridor. She rounded a corner, and then jumped back, startled, as an armed guardsman appeared suddenly from a concealed doorway. Julia’s hand flew to the sword at her hip, and then she relaxed as she recognized the guard.
“Bodeen! What are you doing here?”
“Dying of thirst, mainly, Princess.” The short, stocky guard lowered his sword, and sheathed it. “Three hours I’ve been on duty, and not so much as a cup of mulled ale to warm my bones.”
“It’s a hard life in the Guards,” said Julia amusedly. “What exactly are you guarding?”
“Oh, just some party,” said Bodeen. “Private get-together for some of the Lord Darius’s friends. I didn’t know you’d been invited, Princess; I wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”
“I wasn’t, and I’m not.” Julia grinned. “I’m just going to gate-crash the party to annoy Harald.”
“Prince Harald?” said Bodeen. “I don’t think he’s in there. Certainly he hasn’t passed by me.”
“Oh.” Julia frowned. She was sure she’d followed the servant’s directions exactly … the damn Castle must be up to its old tricks again. Ah, well. “What are you doing here, though, Bodeen? With all those jewels you picked up in the counting house, you could have retired from the Guards and bought yourself a tavern.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Bodeen grimly. “Unfortunately, the King made me hand over everything I’d found to the Seneschal.”
“Not everything, surely?”
“Everything, Princess; right down to the last gold coin. Makes you weep, doesn’t it. All those jewels … I mean, it wasn’t as if the King would have missed a few, after all. If it hadn’t been for you and me, he’d never have seen any of them again. Well, I’ve learnt my lesson. You can’t trust the aristocracy; not even your own King.”
“But … didn’t you at least get a reward for helping rediscover the South Wing?”
“Just doing my job, Princess. That’s what they pay me two silver ducats a week for.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Julia flatly. “I think I’ll have a word with the King about this.”
Bodeen raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you had any pull with him.”
“When you get right down to it, I don’t,” said Julia wryly. “But it’s worth a try.”
“Yeah; sure. Thanks anyway, Princess.”
“I’ll tell you what I can do; I can break into Darius’s party and bring you back a drink. How’s that?”
“It’s a nice thought, Princess, but if you haven’t an invitation I can’t let you pass.”
“Oh, come on, Bodeen; you can let me sneak pass. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m in enough trouble as it is, Princess; I don’t need any more. Thanks for the offer, but no.”
“Bodeen …”
“Get away from him, Julia.”
Julia spun round to find King John standing at the corridor intersection, staring grimly at Bodeen. Behind the King, filling the corridor from wall to wall, stood a full company of guardsmen, each man wearing the distinctive scarlet and gold markings of the Royal Guard.
“Stand aside, Julia,” said the King. “You don’t want to get blood on your dress.”
Prince Harald wandered over to the punch bowl and refilled his glass. So far, the punch was the only thing that made this party bearable. He sat on the edge of the buffet table and stared sardonically about him, one leg idly swinging. Now that Darius and Cecelia had ostentatiously removed their masks, others were following suit. Mask after mask fell away as the revellers gained in confidence, but the faces revealed were flushed with anxiety and too much wine, and their laughter was forced and harsh. Harald smiled sourly and sipped his punch. Treason didn’t come easy at the best of times. He stretched tiredly, and wondered how much longer the party would last. He’d had his fill of the courtiers and businessmen and Lords and Ladies, and all their many promises of what they’d do for him when he became King. And, of course, what they expected from him in return. Harald grinned suddenly.
He had a few surprises in store for them.
“Prince Harald; if we might speak with you a moment?”
Harald looked up at the three Landsgraves standing before him, and nodded curtly. “Of course, Sir Blays. After all, this is your party as much as mine. What can I do for you?”
“We need your decision,” said Guillam, smiling unpleasantly. “And I’m afraid we must insist on knowing it now.”
Harald surged to his feet in one smooth motion, and stood towering over the Landsgrave, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “You insist to me again, my noble Landsgrave,” said Harald quietly, “And I’ll cut your heart out.”
Guillam flushed pinkly, and Blays stepped quickly forward to stand between him and the Prince.
“I’m sure Sir Guillam meant no offense, Sire; it’s just that we don’t have much time. The unmasking has finally begun, and soon the party will be drawing to its close. You must understand that we are all at risk the longer we stay here; if by some chance we were to be discovered together, it might prove a trifle awkward to explain.”
Harald laughed. “You do have a talent for understatement, Sir Blays.”
“Quite,” said the Landsgrave, smiling mirthlessly. “We need an answer, Prince Harald, and we need it now. Are you with us, or not?”
“I need more time to think about it,” said Harald.
“Your time just ran out,” said Sir Bedivere. “What’s t
here to think about? If you’re not with us, you’re against us. And if you’re against us …”
“Then what?” said Harald. “Then what, sir Berserker?”
A crimson glare came and went in the giant Landsgrave’s eyes, but when he spoke his voice was cold and emotionless. “If you’re not with us, Prince Harald, we’ll just find someone else and make him King.”
“Like who?” Harald smiled crookedly and waved his glass around to indicate the crowded Hall. “Rupert’s not coming back, and there’s no one here with any claim to the throne. For better or worse, I’m the last of the Forest Kings; the line ends with me.”
“Precisely,” said Guillam. “So what’s to stop us establishing a new line of Kings?”
Harald looked steadily at Blays. “You’d have to kill me first.”
“That’s right,” said Guillam, and he laughed richly, as though he’d just made an excellant joke.
“There’s no need for all this talk of killing,” said Blays, glaring at Guillam. “The Barons would much rather have someone they can trust on the Forest throne; someone they know they can work with. They want you, Prince Harald. Everyone in this Hall wants you as their King. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Supposing I did agree, just for the sake of argument,” said Harald. “What do you get out of it? I mean, you three personally. What exactly have the Barons promised you; money, power, what?”
Blays thought furiously as he stared impassively at the Prince. Something was happening here, and he wasn’t sure what. Harald seemed … different … somehow. When he’d gone to summon Harald to the party, Blays would have sworn the Prince’s spirit was all but broken. And yet now Harald stood before him, his usual mask of flippancy thrown aside, his voice cold and unyielding. He was far too self-assured for Blays’s liking, and his steady gaze seemed almost mocking, as though he knew something the Landsgraves didn’t. Blays scowled. For the time being he’d play Harald’s game, but later … later, there would be a reckoning.
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 32
