by Euan McAllen
Into The Maze
Book One of The Maze Trilogy
Euan McAllen
First published in 2017 by
AG Books
www.agbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2017 Euan McAllen
The right of Euan McAllen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Part One: Inward Bound
It was a maze, pure and simple. But it was complicated. No one knew why it was there, or how big it was, or how it had been built, or when. It had no beginning. It had no end. It could not be mapped by those alive but it had been by those now dead. It kept you in or it kept you out. It protected you or protected others from you. It led you astray. It led you around in circles. It defined the landscape. It divided the land. It divided those who lived on the land. It antagonised. It astounded. It was a monster of a maze, and it could turn you into a monster.
The Castle was a web of intrigue: never pure, never simple. Its kings and queens fought both in the open and behind closed doors. Its princes were lifted up or put down. Its lords suffered and its ladies swooned. Its nobles and knights took note and took sides. Its servants pushed to persuade their masters, else performed for their masters, else pretended; and sometimes perished. Meanwhile the peasants beyond the Castle walls just kept their heads down and carried on digging and planting and harvesting. It was what peasants did, and they did it well.
***
Unsavoury smells penetrated the rooms of the castle. They emanated from the dining hall: the smell of burnt fat from roast beef, pork, chicken duck, potatoes, onions and parsnips; the smell of beer, bad breath, unwashed clothes, unwashed feet, greasy feet; even leather sandals pickled in sweat. A banquet was in full flow and the sound was deafening. Servants hovered, awaiting orders, grabbing an illicit bite out of sight. Lords worked hard to think of something funny, witty or just loud to say to their ladies. They drank and stank - the ladies as much as the men. Diets were an alien concept, as was ‘five fruit and veg a day’. Amongst them sat Prince Mozak, trying to hold his own with the fat buffoons on either side. He knew that they only pretended to respect him. He didn’t pretend to respect them.
Prince Mozak was stuffed full of roast beef, stuffing and beer. He didn’t like vegetables. He couldn’t face desert. He wanted to slip away early. He wanted a girl. He wanted one particular girl. He looked around. Where was Rufus, that good for nothing? He clicked his fingers and issued an instruction that Rufus be sent for. A junior wine dispenser parked his bottle of wine somewhere safe and ran off to do his prince’s bidding. He found Rufus in the kitchens, stuffing his face with roast beef and stuffing.
‘The prince wants you.’
‘Fuck.’ Rufus licked his fingers, waited for as long as he could, then slowly climbed the stairs to face the heat.
Mozak was smarting at the delay. ‘Where are you when I want you?’
‘Somewhere else,’ replied Rufus, digging, as Prince Mozak pulled him in close and whispered in his ear.
Rufus was to go find a particular, newly promoted, lady-in-waiting and tell her to wait for her prince by the clock tower. Rufus had a pretty good idea what for. As he backed away he watched his master fix his eyes on his mother the Dowager Queen, and then his uncle the King; then back to his mother, then his uncle again; and so on, ad infinitum; watching them avoiding each other like they were toxic. As on previous occasions Rufus tried to feel sorry for him but as always, failed.
Rufus found the prince’s target for lust in her mother’s chambers. She became excited when Rufus announced he had a message from the Prince. He hated himself for it - not much, just enough to make him feel morally superior to his master. She giggled when he said that Prince Mozak wanted to meet her, in secret. Job done, Rufus left quickly. Her innocence was too much to take and his thoughts wanted to switch back to food.
The lovely, little lady-in-waiting met her prince at the prescribed place. She had even washed her hands and face in anticipation of physical contact. He looked pleased to see her. She had lots to talk about since their previous encounter. He didn’t. He offered her a drink from the bottle of wine he had grabbed on his way out of the banquet and she accepted it, to prove she could keep up. He held up two chicken legs. He gave her one and together they nibbled and sipped away to their heart’s content.
This little lady had lovely hair, and he told her so. That’s what he had learnt to do. He had lovely eyes and she told him so, because she meant it. As two drunken knights came stumbling down the alleyway, engaged in mental combat with themselves as well as each other, Mozak broke into the store room opposite and pulled her in behind him. He was greeted by a pile of sacks - big sacks of grain. It was as good as any double bed. He was suddenly in heaven, even though he wasn’t king yet. And she just kept on giggling, like she was stupid, which she probably was.
He played with her. She played with him. He stroked her hair. She hugged him and allowed him to hug her. They finished off the wine and then he finished her off. They did it, in under ten minutes, surrounded on all sides by the grain harvest. Refusal was not an option and afterwards she hurried off in tears, but only because her prince hadn’t declared his love for her.
‘Fuck you then,’ he thought, and slipped away to go get more drunk.
Meanwhile his uncle, true to form, was openly flirting with one of his mistresses while the other looked on, bored, and the Dowager Queen looked on disgusted, mainly at the pig. She had heard about this pig: the king had been seen leading the thing around the castle. Sometimes he had been heard talking to it - talking to a pig! And now for the first it was sitting by his side at the dinner table, honking with gratitude whenever the king threw food its way. To think, she had once fancied this man. Now she held him at arm’s length. (Not realizing he did the same.)
***
The next morning - late morning - Prince Mozak was forced out of bed when he received a summons to see the Dowager Queen. He walked slowly towards her chambers, on his way stopping to watch two guards having an argument - careful not to be seen. It turned physical, but they backed away after a few punches and agreed a draw. (They were cousins.) For Mozak this was unacceptable: he stepped in and offered them both a silver piece to continue the fight until one was on the floor, and an extra piece for the winner. They could not refuse (for he was the prince) and soon one ended up floored, blood on his face. Mozak walked on satisfied. When he reached his mother’s private quarters he stopped for ages, steeling himself for possible abuse.
His mother did not look well. Mozak spotted that straight away when he was brought before her by one of her simpering toadies. And from the way she looked at him from the safety of her armchair, it was quite evident that she thought the same. He edged forward, still steeling himself for the battering which was about to be released. He could tell it was coming. He could see the signs. She hated him having a good time - or so he had convinced himself. The Dowa
ger Queen did not mince her words.
‘You smell disgusting. And you look awful.’
Thank you mother, thought Mozak. He decided not to rise to the bait. He was nearly eighteen. Soon she would not be able to touch him. (Or so he thought.) Which left just the king.
‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Mozak shrugged. ‘It was a banquet. You eat and drink to excess. That’s the point.’
If really pushed, he had lots to say, though he guessed that now was not a good time to say it. Instead he decided to take the initiative.
‘How did it go with Uncle Bizi last night?’
His mother immediately looked away as if stung, as if an invisible hand had snapped her neck sideways.
‘None of your business. Now listen.’
Mozak, feeling cocky, felt like saying that it would soon be his business: he was nearly eighteen and next in line to the throne, and she was just a widowed queen living on a pension - a pension he could cancel when he was king. ‘When he was king.’ He loved that expression. Instead he did as he was told and listened as his mother proceeded to reprimand him for his previous night’s exploits with the young, but not that young, Lady Jane. She did not come across as shocked by her son’s behaviour, nor disappointed in him, more just put out. Apparently Lady Jane had gone crying to her mother who in turn had gone - possibly crying - to her to file a complaint. Mozak guessed he wouldn’t be seeing much of Lady Jane for a while. Would he have to marry her? God no, please. Don’t force me to marry her.
Business done, the Dowager Queen moved the conversation on to something more important while her son struggled to stand to attention.
‘You must be married when you are eighteen. You will be married when you are eighteen.’
She had decided and the king had decided and the parents had agreed: the prince was to marry Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Lady Agnes Aga-Smath: Prince Mozak wanted to throw up there and then; and he nearly did. Lady Agnes had big breasts, yes, but everything else was big as well: big bum, big thighs, big mouth, big everything.
‘Why do I have to get married. You’re not married. The king isn’t married.’
Her face fell. Her eyes bulged. Mozak stepped back. That did not look good.
‘I am widowed Mozak, you know that!’
Mozak fell back further as his mother spat more words at him.
‘And Bizi was not next in line so he had a choice. You have no choice.’
She gave her son her usual look which dared him to respond then waved her annoyance away.
‘Go now. I’m tired. And stay out of trouble.’
Prince Mozak gave his mother one last look of protest before he left the room, and noted that she had put on more weight. He retreated quickly, in a worse mood: he and his stiff, stuck up mother never got on these days.
Back in his room he was cheered up with the news that Foccinni had reappeared. He made it his priority that day - the one thing he would do - to seek out the man. But lunch first - after all he had missed breakfast. Where was Rufus? Rufus was never around when he needed him. Rufus was pushing his luck. He considered dispatching a guard to go find him - but then he turned up, with lunch, one step ahead of the game and possibly pulling his master’s leg.
‘You should show me more respect,’ complained Mozak as he chewed his way into a beef and mustard sandwich.
‘Yes boss.’
‘It’s master. You address me as master, not boss.’
‘Yes master.’
As Mozak chewed on, and picked bits of gristle from out between his teeth, and gulped down buttermilk, it occurred to him that Rufus was watching him like an eagle. He didn’t like it. It probably meant that Rufus was thinking hard.
‘What?’
‘You said, you promised, I could take some holiday?’
‘When?’
‘Today. Now.’
‘For how long?’
‘Two days.’
‘And what am I supposed to do?’
‘You’ll survive, I’m sure. Little Toby is just as good as me.’
‘Little Toby as you call him is an imbecile.’
‘Two days. You promised me. We have holiday rights. It’s written in law.’
‘OK. OK.’ Mozak waved away his irritation.
‘And you know that Foccinni is back?’
‘Yes. Now leave me alone.’
Glad to, thought Rufus, and left; to treat himself to a beef and mustard sandwich - the one that hadn’t ended up on his master’s plate.
Mozak looked up from his sandwich - too much mustard as always. He could not help but watch Rufus leave the room. Suddenly he was jealous, and not for the first time. Rufus revelled in freedom. He had more freedom than his master, him, the prince - just less time possibly to enjoy it. He didn’t have to be on time for formal duties. He didn’t have to please the king. He didn’t have to make sure he was always dressed right and proper, and be seen to be mixing with only the right company. That Rufus had it easy. That Rufus always looked happy, even when his prince was giving him a bad time. Rufus was slightly younger than him but acted older, wiser, just to annoy him.
But despite the mostly one way animosity, they stayed together. They had an unspoken bond, an arrangement, a common disability: both had lost their fathers when very young, when still babies crawling around on all fours. One was definitely dead. The other was presumed dead. Sometimes, when still small and still regarding each other as their equal, the two had talked about it but concluded nothing except that life was unfair. Dead fathers hung over them like lead weights tied to their heads. Also Rufus knew about his prince’s disgusting habits and Prince Mozak feared he might share such intimate details with others were he ever to be sacked.
***
Prince Mozak sped out through the castle gates on his horse, impatient to see Foccinni. Foccinni lived outside the castle walls. He was out of favour with the king, ever since the fallout between the king and the Dowager Queen. He lived in a small cottage close to the Maze. The bricks used to build it had been taken from its wall. Mozak banged on the door as always with unnecessary excessive force.
‘Foccinni!’
When Foccinni opened it he looked tired, older, thought Mozak.
‘I was expecting you.’
‘You’re back.’
‘Certainly am. Come in.’ Foccinni looked out across the prince’s shoulder. ‘Did anyone follow you?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Who would want to follow me anyway?’
Foccinni looked at Prince Mozak as if he was still ten and asking the most stupid questions.
‘One of the king’s men of course. You know I’m not supposed to talk to you. Does he ask about me? Does he say my name and spit blood?’
Mozak fought back. ‘How would he know you are back?’
‘He doesn’t know I went away!’
‘True.’
Mozak looked around the main room. It was a mess, just like his room, which he rather liked. He fell into the nearest armchair. Time for serious stuff now.
‘Guess what.’
‘What? I’m no good at guessing.’
‘They’re going to marry me off, when I’m eighteen.’
‘That’s no surprise.’
‘To that Lady Agnes Aga-Smath, Lady bloody Agnes Aga-Smath.’
Foccinni folded his arms and chuckled at the poor boy’s discomfort.
‘Don’t laugh! She’s terrible!’
‘She probably thinks the same of you.’
‘What do you mean!’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m not going to marry her!’
‘Do you have a choice?’
Mozak was reduced to a defeatist whisper. ‘Probably not.’
In
frustration he tried to kick the nearby brass bucket.
Foccinni sat down opposite him. ‘Enough of that. That’s the price you pay for being a prince. Your life is mapped out for you.’
He suddenly looked all very serious and heavy, like the prince’s tutor who struggled to teach him basic numbers and writing.
‘Now listen to me.’
Mozak looked up harshly. He was nearly eighteen. Foccinni shouldn’t talk to him like that. Foccinni looked out of the window one more time.
‘Well what? I’m listening.’
Foccinni looked Prince Mozak straight in the eye. It him right off.
‘Stop looking at me like that.’
‘I’ve something to tell you.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
‘You kept asking me to find out more.’
So this was it. The man had news about his father. Mozak stiffened and squeezed the ends of the armrests, like he was about to have a tooth pulled. Foccinni leaned forward. Mozak could not lean back. There was nowhere to go. There were only inches between them.
‘Well get on with it then, I can take it.’
And still Foccinni said nothing.
‘He’s dead isn’t he. He’s dead. I knew it. Had to be. She said he was dead. I should have believed her.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What?’
‘I think he might still be alive and well - well hopefully well.’
Mozak’s eyes opened wide. He was electrified.
‘Why? Why do you say that? Have you seen him? Spoken to him?’
‘No. But I met someone who I think has.’
‘How can you be so sure - they be so sure?’
‘She isn’t. She doesn’t know who he is. He didn’t give her his name. But she mentioned the tattoo.’
‘Tattoo?’
‘Your father had - has - a distinctive tattoo on his chest. It’s a dedication to your mother. He had it done when they first fell in love. Like young lovers do.’
‘And now she hates him.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
