She put the book back on it shelf and hurried back to her apartment.
A terrible creature indeed! And this silly goose girl has one!
Oh, the things I might do with such a weapon at my side! She paced the carpet in excitement and agitation. A change of plan: the girl would not be slain at the renewal - that would be a disgraceful waste. Some substitute would have to be found for the ceremony.
She rang for Milassa.
“The goose girl’s father,” she said curtly, “and the little boy he carries. Find them and bring them to the palace. See they want for nothing.”
Sixteen
“Where are they?”
Broad woke with a start and fell off his chair. Dugger was standing over him, his face a portrait of an angry man.
“Um...” Broad picked himself up. “They’re gone.”
“Well, I can see that, knobhead.” Dugger threw up his hands in exasperation.
“It’s a long story.”
“Give me the highlights.”
But Broad could not. He could not tell the watchman the condemned men were dead, their souls devoured by a shadowy creature who lives in a ring and their bodies swallowed whole by a magical sack. It was too full a bucket of eels for him to kick over; he’d never get them back in again.
“I’m waiting...” Dugger’s foot was tapping to demonstrate the rapid passing of time.
“Well, they were going to die anyway, so...” Broad’s words trailed off.
“So you let them out?”
“No!”
“Then where the bloody blue frig are they?”
Broad squirmed. “I can’t say.”
“Can’t say or won’t say?”
“I don’t know!”
“You don’t know if you can’t or won’t say, or you can’t say because you don’t know where they are?”
“Er... what was the first one again?”
Dugger groaned. “He’ll still have to be paid, you know.”
“Who will?”
“The hangman. It’ll come out of your wages.”
Stran returned, saw the empty cells at once and looked disappointed. “Oh,” he said. “Have I missed it?”
“They’re gone,” said Dugger.
“Shame. I like a good hanging.”
“Nobody’s been hanged. Shit-for-brains here has let them go.”
Broad was appalled. “I never!”
“You never!” gasped Stran, clearly impressed by this audacious turn of events.
“No, I never,” said Broad. “It’s complicated.”
“It all seems pretty simple and straightforward to me,” Dugger folded his arms. “Billy Bollockhead was in league with them all along, weasels his way in here and as soon as our backs are turned - wallop! He lets them out to go off and do some more murders.”
“Coo,” said Stran. He narrowed his eyes at Broad. “What a bastard.”
“I am not!” Broad stamped his foot. “And I did not! Please believe me! Those men won’t be doing any more murders.”
“And you know that for definite, do you?”
“Yes!”
Dugger looked at Stran and Stran looked at Dugger. They both looked at Broad.
“The Duke,” they said.
“The Duke?” Broad was confused.
“He’ll sort you out,” said Stran.
They bundled the befuddled youth into a cell.
“One way or another,” said Dugger, locking the door.
It did not occur to either of the watchmen that Broad could not possibly have let the prisoners go; the keys had never left Dugger’s belt the whole time.
***
Cloaked and hooded, the Duke rode back to the palace across open country. The bodyguards would be displeased, to put it mildly, if they knew he was exposing himself to danger in this manner; as far as they were aware, His Grace was taking one of his long baths, and was not to be interrupted. Not that they would wish to walk in and find him doing whatever it was that took him so long. In the bath. The bodyguards would roll their eyes and nudge each other - and leave the Duke to it, which was precisely what he wanted. He had been slipping out of the palace like this for years.
On this occasion it was to visit that malodorous magician, Smedlock, in the hope of receiving word. The Duke longed for their endeavours to come to fruition; time was of the essence and in ever-dwindling supply. His wedding anniversary approached; he forced himself not to count off the intervening days in terms of ‘sleeps’ or ‘get-ups’, which he felt was an immature way to carry on and therefore far beneath him.
The meeting had not fulfilled his hopes. The wizard had proved evasive, unable to provide any concrete information or give any real assurance that the thing would arrive before the anniversary.
“But there are only fourteen sl - days until then!” the Duke, petulant, stamped his foot.
“A lot can happen in a fortnight, Your Grace.”
That was true, the Duke reflected, but the greasy little chap was cutting it a bit fine.
“I am doing everything within my power,” Smedlock assured him. “Your charming wife shall have her goldinium surprise.”
“I should jolly well hope so,” said the Duke. “Although I have not mentioned it to her, what with it being a surprise and all, but to have to find a substitute gift now that I have my hopes up would be too, too crushing.”
Smedlock nodded and said he supposed it would be, yes.
And so the Duke got back on his horse, which was also incognito, and headed for home. He abandoned the horse in a courtyard - a servant would find it before long - and stole up the back stairs to his private quarters. The bathwater was still just about warm as he stripped off his riding clothes and stepped into the tub. A few minutes later, he emerged, refreshed and invigorated by his quick dip. The bodyguards nudged each other as he joined them.
“A relaxing soak, Your Grace?” asked one.
“You look out of breath, Your Grace,” insinuated another. The Duke ignored them; it suited his purposes to have them think - whatever it was they were thinking - so that he could nip out whenever the need arose.
“You’re rubbing your wrist, Your Grace. Shall I fetch a doctor?”
“What? Am I? Oh, no; it’s quite all right. I must have strained it.” The Duke could not tell them the injury must have arisen from his whipping of the horse. He just wished they would not giggle so openly. “My wife?”
“She asked not to be disturbed. Don’t know if she was having a bath and all.”
The bodyguards burst into fits of laughter. The Duke eyed them with a withering stare they completely failed to notice.
“No one is indispensable,” he reminded them. They tried to comport themselves with a little more sobriety. “Tell the kitchens I shall dine alone. You may go.”
The bodyguards, chastened, shuffled out. They had not gone far however before the Duke heard their laughter break out again and echo up the stairwell.
Idiots! Perhaps I ought to look into finding their replacements. Someone I can trust. But who that might be, the Duke could not imagine. People he could trust were the rarest of creatures, all but extinct.
At least I still have my wife, he consoled himself; at least I still have Carith.
***
Smedlock was glad to see the back of his visitor. He always was. The Duke was an irritant but a necessary one, unfortunately. Without the Duke’s input, the wizards’ enterprise would be harder to achieve - and they must preserve their powers for the important bits, those parts of the plan that could not be accomplished by other means. No, the pretext of assisting His Grace with finding an anniversary present for his wife was an almost perfect cover. Smedlock had almost free rein to travel anywhere within the Principality, includin
g - he rattled the bunch of keys in his pocket - the lighthouses of Ptorf, his next destination.
Things were coming together at last, after decades of preparation.
He stirred his cauldron and dropped in another turnip. Tarkwayne would be tickled to hear it - oh, sod him! Smedlock allowed the broth to simmer down. That snooty git doesn’t have to know everything.
Smedlock resolved to go to Ptorf alone, do what he needed to do, and then return to gloat in his co-conspirators’ faces. I may be old-fashioned and set in my ways but I’m still the most powerful wizard. All right, so there’s only three of us in the running for the title, but I outclass those two dribblewits by a long way.
Chuckling to himself, Smedlock prepared for his journey to the northern shore. He decanted the navarin into a canteen. It would sustain him on the road and, if he needed to contact the others, he had the means to hand.
He selected a walking staff - it would serve both as support and as cudgel should any fool of an outlaw get in his way - and doused the fire under the cauldron by pissing on it. He wiggled his fingers at the cave mouth, leaving a charm to guard his home while he was away. Anyone who tried to get in would be infested with boils. It seemed fair.
He set off into the woods, whistling and chuckling to himself. It would be good to feel the bracing sea air of Ptorf on his cheeks again. And even better to get one up on those other two. Oh, I’ll show them all right, he muttered with grim determination. I’ll show them who’s in charge.
He made good progress in the first couple of hours, striding through the undergrowth, in high spirits, pleased with himself already. But so did his pursuer, for Smedlock in his smugness and his pride, had failed to notice a shadowy figure dogging his every step.
***
The Duke tapped softly on the door to his wife’s apartment. He waited; there was no response. He tried again, a little louder.
The door opened, surprising him a little.
“Ah, Milassa!” he composed himself. “Is my wife...?”
The mute handmaiden’s impassive face told him nothing, but she stepped back and gestured for him to enter.
Dash it all! I am the Duke! I should be able to go anywhere I damned well please.
But not my wife’s apartment. That was sacrosanct. He afforded her the privacy she required. There was no need to put pressure on her, no need to rush. The anniversary was drawing ever nearer and she had promised that one year after their wedding day, he would at last get the wedding night for which he longed.
The handmaiden closed the door and withdrew, leaving the Duke waiting in the anteroom. He felt not a little awkward - it was akin to waiting to see his late father - before he died, of course, although perhaps encountering the ghost of the previous Duke would be less of a nerve-wracking prospect than talking to Carith.
Oh, how different things had turned out to the way he had envisaged! His wife was still as beautiful as the day they had first met, but there was a coldness within her that had not been there before. She kept herself aloof; he rarely saw her. Once, when he summoned up the courage to confront her about her absences from court, she burst into tears and said it was to make the year of celibacy pass as painlessly as possible, for to be in his handsome presence gave rise to longings and yearnings she blushed to speak of.
It had seemed like a reasonable explanation at the time.
And now, here he was, waiting for an audience with his wife, with his heart racing and his throat parched. I should have asked that dummy for a glass of water, he reflected.
He cast around. There was no water but there was a chair. He dared to sit on it but could not keep his foot from tapping, betraying his nervous excitement.
Perhaps it is good that the woman still makes me feel this way, like I should run a mile and yet like I’ve just run one. Isn’t this how being in love feels?
The Duke was not so much a fool to believe he was in love with his wife. He had been, once, back in the early days. It was a cliché to say that marriage had changed all that.
No; I am in awe of her.
How many husbands one year down the matrimonial road could still say that?
He found he could not sit. He sprang up and paced the floor. He had not felt this nervous since the night he had asked for her hand in marriage. Ah, happy, heady days!
***
She had been wearing a garland, he remembered that. A garland of white flowers encircled her head. A matching chain of daisies hung around her neck, the green of the entwined stalks contrasting with the stark brightness of her white dress. She stumbled into the road, bursting through bushes, and stood, panting for breath, in front of the ducal procession. Her eyes were fixed on his, her piercing, jet-black eyes; his were fixed somewhere south of those eyes as her magnificent bosom heaved with her every breath.
“Your Grace?” one of the guards flanking the Duke’s horse was awaiting instruction. Several men had their weapons trained on the girl. The Duke waved at them to stand down and then, against all protocol, he dismounted and approached the stranger. He bowed his head and offered her a handkerchief.
She snatched it and dabbed at her forehead and neck, her eyes never leaving his.
“May I offer you a ride somewhere?” the Duke uttered, aware that he was perspiring now more than she was, and his throat was suddenly dry.
She looked him up and down and noticed that the emblem on his tunic matched the monogram on the handkerchief. She raised an eyebrow.
***
Later, at the palace, she joined him for dinner. While she was bathing he had sent out to Grimswyck for new gowns. He was pleased to see she had selected the purple one. It set off her black tresses to perfection.
“My name is Marmellion,” he told her. “I am the Duke.”
“Hello,” she said, reaching for a glass of water. “I’m Carith Drombo.”
He learned very little from her but she, subtly, gleaned a lot from him. He told her he was barely out of mourning for his late father and that he had been taking his first tour of the Principality, meeting his subjects and kissing their hands and shaking their babies -
Her laughter brought him up short. He realised his error and laughed too. There was something so very captivating about her laughter - damn it, everything about her was utterly, irresistibly fascinating. He insisted she stayed the night - in a private apartment, of course. He looked forward to taking her on a tour of the palace grounds after breakfast.
“You were running,” he ventured to mention as they strolled through the ornamental gardens.
“Was I?”
“When we met? You ran into the road. You were almost trampled under hoof.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
They walked on.
“Would you mind, awfully,” he persisted, “telling me from what you were running so desperately?”
“Very well,” she said, much to his surprise. “Not all men in this Principality have Your Grace’s integrity.”
He waited but nothing more was forthcoming. He saw she was admiring the blood red roses, his family’s own breed. He picked one for her and in doing so, pricked his thumb.
“Oh, you poor dear!” she cried, seizing his hand. She examined his finger, the bright bead of red. Before he knew what was happening, she was sucking his fingertip, her large eyes looking up into his.
“Marry me,” he said.
Her response was unintelligible. She removed his finger from her mouth.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she repeated.
***
The palace was thrown into uproar. The Duke was keen to get married as soon as the cake could be baked, but his advisors suggested it might be better to wait until invitations could be delivered to all the dignitaries that would expect to attend such a momentous - not to mention joyous - event in the Duke’s li
fe. In the end, he agreed to a three-month period for all the necessary preparations to be done. Meanwhile, he housed Carith in a cottage in the grounds, sending a carriage to fetch her to the palace to dine every evening.
“A word, if I may.”
The Duke turned from the window. He was watching the carriage clip along the drive to his beloved’s cottage. Frankler, his loyal adjutant, looked grave.
“Well?” His Grace was impatient. He did not want anything eating into the precious time he spent with his bewitching fiancée.
“I have been absent, Your Grace may have noticed, for two weeks.”
“I had noticed,” the Duke lied. “You have yet to congratulate me on my incredible good fortune.”
“Your Grace?”
“I am to marry the woman of my dreams!”
“Ah, yes. That. It is about that I wish to speak. I returned to the spot where you first encountered the - lady - and traced her steps. In all conscience, I cannot and will not allow the marriage to take place.”
The Duke was incensed. “You presume-”
Frankler bowed low. “I am exceedingly sorry, Your Grace, but what I discovered-”
“I do not give a blue frig for what you discovered!” the Duke roared. “Did I order you to sneak around? Did I ask?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Get out of my sight. You may collect a month’s pay and be gone. I have no wish to see you again.”
“But, Your Grace!”
“Did I not make myself clear? You are dismissed.”
Frankler bowed even lower. Straightening, he placed a sheaf of papers on a table. “My findings, Your Grace.”
He backed out. The Duke barely glanced at the papers. He turned back to the window and was heartened to see the coach making its return journey. My love is coming, he grinned! His breathing returned to normal - along with the usual palpitations that accompanied her proximity.
The kisses he pressed onto her hand were more ardent than usual. Carith laughed and said they had been apart for only a few hours and not several months, as the warmth of his welcome might suggest.
They dined and danced and drank until it was time for her to return to her cottage. The Duke, sorry to see her go, danced on his own, finishing the last bottle by himself. I am the luckiest man in the Principality, he congratulated himself, hiccoughing his way to bed.
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 19
