Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  “You could be right,” said Darius. He drank deeply from his wine glass, and on lowering it was surprised to find it empty. He frowned, and put the glass down on a nearby table. This was no time to be getting the worse for drink. “Come, my dear, our guests are waiting, and if Harald won’t charm them we’ll have to do it for him, damn the man.”

  Cecelia laughed. “You mean Gregory and I will have to charm them, you’ll be too busy making political and business deals.”

  “Of course,” said Darius. “It’s what I do best.”

  They shared a smile, and then moved away in different directions.

  Harald strolled slowly through the party, nodding politely to those he recognised, and smiling coldly at those he didn’t. He ignored all invitations to stop and talk, and wandered back and forth across the Hall until he was sure he’d seen everybody at least once. He finally ended up before the blazing open fire, and stood with his back to it, quietly enjoying the heat as it seeped slowly into his bones. Even the many thick stone walls of the Castle couldn’t seem to keep out the unnatural cold that had fallen across the Forest. Bitter frosts blighted all the Land, and every morning the snow lay more thickly on the castle battlements. Even the moat was beginning to ice over.

  Harald shrugged, and sipped at his wine. Across the Hall, Darius was glaring at him. Harald looked away. He wasn’t ready to talk to anybody yet. Instead, he amused himself by watching the masked guests as they moved gracefully through the intricate measures of a dance, or gathered in hungry little groups round the buffet tables and scandalmongers. It seemed to Harald that for all the different kinds of mask, there was still a definite pecking order. High Society had their own individual and highly stylised masks, each with its own subtle clues as to whose features lay concealed beneath. The lesser nobles wore the wilder and more bizarre masks, as though making up in originality what they lacked in social standing. The traders and the military made do with the simple black domino masks that Lord Darius had provided.

  Directly opposite Harald, three men stood together who wore no masks. Harald inclined his head slightly to them. The three Landsgraves nodded in acknowledgement, but made no move to approach him. Harald frowned, and met their eyes in turn. Sir Blays stared calmly back, Sir Guillam bobbed his head and simpered nervously, and Sir Bedivere … Despite himself, Harald shivered suddenly as he tried and failed to meet Sir Bedivere’s cold dark eyes. He knew now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that if he had fought the Landsgrave that day in Court, Sir Bedivere would have killed him easily. Harald glowered into his empty glass. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the Landsgrave’s insult to his father, but he vowed to himself that if it ever came to a fighting insult again, he’d have more sense than to challenge the Landsgrave to a duel. He’d just stab the man in the back, or put ground glass in his wine.

  “Welcome to the party,” said a chill voice, and Harald looked up to find himself face to face with a black and white harlequin mask. Its rosebud mouth smiled politely, but no humour showed in the pale blue eyes behind the mask.

  “I know that voice,” murmured Harald. “Lord Vivian, isn’t it? You’re in charge of the Castle’s guards, in the Champion’s absence.”

  Lord Vivian reached up and slowly and deliberately removed his mask, revealing a gaunt, raw-boned face so pale as to be almost colourless, topped with a thick mane of silver-grey hair. There was a calm and studied stillness to the face that suggested strength and determination, but the eyes were hard and unyielding. Fanatic’s eyes. His frame was lean and wiry, rather than muscular, but there was a deadly grace to his few, economical movements, and Harald noticed that Vivian’s right hand never strayed far from his swordhilt.

  “I command the Castle guards,” said Lord Vivian slowly, “Now, and always, my King.”

  “I’m not King yet,” said Harald.

  “You will be,” said Vivian. “The Champion isn’t coming back. His body lies rotting in the Darkwood. I speak for the guards now, and every man-at-arms in this Castle follows my orders. With us at your side, no one will dare dispute your claim to the Forest throne.”

  “Indeed,” said Harald. “But why should you support me, rather than my father? You swore an oath of allegiance to him, upon your life and your honour.”

  “That was before the coming of the Darkwood,” said Vivian flatly. “My oath to protect the Land takes precedence over all other oaths. My loyalty is to the throne, not who sits on it. The Forest is endangered, and your father is no longer capable of doing what must be done.”

  Harald raised an eyebrow. “I take it you have something in mind for me to order as King?”

  Vivian smiled coldly. “Take the fight to the enemy, Sire. Unite all the guards and men-at-arms into a single great army, and send them forth against the darkness. Under my command they will butcher the demons and drive them back.”

  “And then?” asked Harald.

  “And then my troops will set a wall of fire between us and the demons, a searing, bright-burning flame that will drive the foul creatures back into the darkness from which they came!”

  “Even assuming such a tactic would work,” said Harald thoughtfully, “hundreds of the outlying farms would be lost in the fire, thousands of peasants would die.”

  Vivian shrugged. “Regrettable, but necessary. If the Darkwood isn’t stopped, they’ll die anyway. What does it matter if a few peasants must die, if by their deaths they ensure the survival of the Forest Kingdom? I’m a soldier, my men and I take that same risk every time we go out into battle. Afterwards … we can always build more farms, and the lower classes breed like rabbits anyway.”

  “Quite,” murmured Harald. “Still, I fear the Barons would not take kindly to such widespread destruction of their lands.”

  “My army would stand ready to support their King against any foe,” said Vivian calmly. “No matter where such enemies may be found.”

  “A comforting thought,” said Harald. “I will think on your words, my Lord Vivian, and your most generous offer of support.”

  “In return for my position as High Commander of the Guard, Sire.”

  “Of course, Lord Vivian. But of course.”

  Vivian bowed slightly, and replaced his harlequin mask. Faded blue eyes glittered coldly behind the black and white silk, and then Lord Vivian turned away and disappeared into the milling crowd. Harald frowned, and shook his head as though to clear it. Vivian’s presence at the party was hardly a surprise, but somehow Harald felt almost disappointed. He’d expected better of the man.

  He glowered into his empty glass, tossed it over his shoulder into the fireplace, and casually acquired a fresh glass from a passing servant. The wine was lousy, but Harald was damned if he could face this party entirely sober. He looked up to see a masked Lord and Lady heading uncertainly in his direction. Harald sighed, and nodded politely to them. He’d better speak to somebody, or some of the guests might get nervous and leave. And that would never do. He bowed to the Lord and to the Lady, and they bowed and curtsied deeply in return.

  The things I have to do, thought Harald sardonically. The things I have to do …

  More masked figures came and went as the Ball wore on. Harald met three Lords he had suspected, two he hadn’t, and a handful of local traders; it seemed the Darkwood was bad for business. The vast majority of those he met turned out to be courtiers, which was pretty much what he’d expected. On the one hand, courtiers tended to be conservative by nature, for as landowners or sheriffs of the King’s land, they had much to lose and little to gain from any political change. But on the other hand, when all was said and done, most courtiers were lesser nobles who wanted very much to be greater nobles. And the only way to achieve that was to acquire more land, or move to positions of greater influence within the Court. Which was why they came to Harald, hiding behind their masks of silk and leather and thinly beaten metal. The masks changed, but the story was always the same—support in return for patronage. After a while Harald stopped listening and just said y
es to everyone. It saved time.

  Cecelia and Gregory paraded arm in arm the length of the Hall and back again, smiling and chatting and making sure that everyone’s wine glass was full to the brim. With her beauty and his firm, masculine good looks, they made a handsome couple, bold and bright. Cecelia was at her sparkling best, her malicious little quips and barbed comments reducing even the most stern-faced to indulgent smiles and open laughter. While not the most diplomatic of men, Gregory could be charming when he put his mind to it, and with Cecelia at his side to inspire him the young guardsman strolled amiably among the uncertain, radiating confidence. Bluff and hearty, his sure manner and calm good humour steadied quavering nerves and spread a sense of purpose among the wavering. There were few glances at Cecelia’s arm linked through his; everyone knew, or at least suspected. There were a few sidelong glances in Darius’s direction, but nobody said anything. Since Darius knew and apparently didn’t object, the subject was closed, at least in public. Among the courtiers, eyes met and shoulders shrugged. Politics made for strange bedfellows. Sometimes literally.

  Darius missed none of this as he circulated among his guests. Fools. He knew well enough that where reason couldn’t sway a man, charm often would. Possessing but little charm himself, Darius needed someone else to front for him on occasion, someone with good looks, an easy manner, and not enough brains to double-cross his master. Gregory might have been tailor-made for the position. It helped that Cecelia liked him. But then, Cecelia wasn’t exactly brilliant either.

  Darius sighed quietly, and looked around him. At least Harald had finally condescended to talk to his fellow guests, even if he did seem to be attracting mainly the lesser nobles of no real influence or importance. Darius sniffed cynically. About time Harald started pulling his weight and getting his noble hands dirty. Darius thought of the hard bargaining he’d just been through to get the two leading Forest grain merchants on his side, and smiled grimly. It wasn’t just politics and force of arms that made a rebellion, as Harald and the Barons would find out to their cost. In return for certain future concessions, Darius now owned all the stocks of grain remaining in the Forest Land. Not so much as one cart-load would leave the carefully hidden silos without his permission. The Landsgraves might think they owned him, but the Barons would soon learn better when they had to come cap in hand to the Lord Darius for grain to feed their troops … He chuckled coldly, and then quickly composed his face into calm inscrutability as Sir Blays approached him. Darius looked surreptitiously about for Guillam and Bedivere, but there was no sign of them.

  “Sir Blays, my dear fellow,” said Darius, bowing formally. “I trust you are enjoying my hospitality.”

  “Your wine’s lousy and the company stinks,” said Blays. “Still, when you’re dealing with traitors, you learn to ignore things that would normally sicken you. I take it you’ve noticed Harald’s growing popularity? Courtiers who’d normally run a mile to avoid him are fighting each other for the chance to shake his hand in public.”

  “Dear Harald does seem to be doing rather well,” murmured Darius. “Possibly because he’s been a little over-generous in his offers of patronage. Still, let him promise what he likes. It keeps the courtiers happy, and we can always put things right, later.”

  “You mean the Barons will put things right, Darius.”

  “Of course, Sir Blays. But of course.”

  “Something’s worrying your guests,” said Blays suddenly. “Something that’s got them so scared they daren’t even discuss it here. Have you any idea what’s got into them?”

  “Curtana,” said Darius flatly. “They don’t believe it’s been stolen, any more than you or I do. No, my dear Blays, they’re afraid that John and his pet Astrologer now have the Sword of Compulsion, and are planning to use it against them, setting geas after geas upon them until they’re nothing more than slaves, with no will of their own.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” said Blays carefully. “How about you? Do you think John has the Curtana?”

  Darius shrugged. “What does it matter? If he has, there’s nothing we can do about it. If he hasn’t, then he’s defenceless against us. Besides, I’ve no doubt the sword’s powers have been greatly exaggerated over the years. All magic fades, in time.”

  Sir Blays shook his head. “Legend has it that Curtana derives its power from the Demon Prince himself. If that’s so, then the Curtana is once again one of the deadliest weapons ever to be wielded in the Land. If by some chance the King really hasn’t got it, we’d better find out who has, and quickly. John might hesitate to use the Curtana; there are a great many others who wouldn’t.”

  “That’s a problem for another day,” said Darius. “In the meantime, the longer the Curtana stays missing, the better; its main value to us is as a weapon with which to isolate King John from his Court. The more scared they are of the King, the more likely they are to side with us.”

  Sir Blays smiled cynically. “It won’t be that easy, Darius. It’s not enough for these sheep to be scared, they have to be pushed into action. And to do that we have to be able to offer them some kind of protection against both the Curtana and the Royal Guard.”

  “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 Armoury has been re-opened.”

  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 support us openly. 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, blatantly 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. S
ince 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 to 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 jeopardise 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.