by A. J. Ponder
“Yes,” said the boy.
Arrant beamed from ear to ear. “King Tomas, now,” he said. “And King Tomas, I think you and I are going to get on very well.”
Prince Tomas
NAME: Tomas Willem Orlando Salvat Dalrella
CLASS:Royalty
FAMILIAR: None
SPECIALTY: None
RÉSUMÉ:None
PASSED:Nothing
A Fool’s Errand
Sometimes, the only choices we have are foolish
By the time Sylvalla found Tishke reclined on a divan in the drawing room, surrounded by sycophants, she wasn’t in the mood to pull her punches. “It’s not just Amarinda. Avondale and Scotch Mist are at risk. I have to go. I’m not going to trust this to any old diplomatic envoy. I have to know where the kingdom stands.”
Tishke wiped her brow. “Truly, you are your father’s daughter, rushing off to flaunt yourself at state events and leaving all the work of running Avondale to me.”
“I must go,” Sylvalla repeated.
“You’ve barely arrived,” Tishke snapped. “I tell you that I go to Deaths’ Kingdom, and what? You come all this way just to be off within a two-day, and after some kitchen hand.”
A small explosion in the garden outdid Tishke’s thunder.
Everyone flinched.
Tishke patted her forehead with a handkerchief.
“Mother, don’t be ridiculous,” Sylvalla said. “We will not be long, but our trip is important to protect the kingdom. As is Torri’s work. You will see she gets what she needs while I’m away?”
“So now some other wretch is more important than I. I always thought you were headstrong, but I never thought you were a fool. Pray to the gods, Sylvalla, ask them for humility—this queen stuff is going to your head.”
“Torri’s our best chance to protect Avondale if it comes to a fight. And I might be the best chance at preventing one.”
“Send Francis. You know, they’ll listen to the prince of Havendale—if they’ll listen to anyone.”
“Francis is in Scotch Mist. It will take him days, maybe weeks to organise his trip.”
Courtiers entered the drawing room. They fluttered fans and asked impolite questions like, “What’s got into Sylvalla?”
Sylvalla sighed. She’d never understood what her mother saw in courtiers.
“I am dying.” Tishke’s eyes flashed, even as she turned sideways to appreciate the commotion this argument had caused. “Sylvalla, if you go and I die, what will you have gained?”
“It’ll only be a week or two, we won’t be long.”
“I am dying, Sylvalla,” Tishke repeated. “A few days might be forever.”
“You’re the only person who thinks so,” Sylvalla said. It was a lie. Both Dirk and the royal physician swore she had a month or two, even if everyone else thought the old queen would live forever out of sheer curmudgeon-ness. After all, she had so far.
“I’m the only person who’s right. Have I told you—?” Whatever Tishke was going to say remained unsaid as a group of gardeners burst through the door.
One of them fell at Sylvalla’s feet and sobbed, “Thank goodness we found you.”
Sylvalla flinched, fighting the gut-wrenching certainty that she was about to be burdened with some dire prophetic warning.
“That girl, Torri, she’s going to kill every one of us. I swear I’ll not garden with her and her gods-forsaken devices—she’s dangerous as a…”
“As a what?” Sylvalla said, not entirely relieved that the news wasn’t an omen. Sorting out people’s ruffled feathers and convincing them Torri was their best defence might take some time—time she didn’t have.
“Mother—” Sylvalla raised her voice to cut through the sudden flutter of fan-waving. “Everybody, please listen. We need to defend Avondale, and Torri is magnificent. She and her team of siege engineers defeated the Scotch Mist army with her contraptions, and she will help us defeat any other king who attacks Avondale, if you give her a chance.”
Another gardener stepped forward, pointing his crooked fingers. The poor sod should have been retired on a pension some time ago. “The signs be true. It’s the work of demons and devils, I tell you. I could smell the stench of hell itself in the noxious vapours, even before her demon machine spat out the unnatural boulder that destroyed my favourite rosebush.”
“I don’t have the time for this,” Sylvalla yelled. “Torri’s research must go on. See to it, or I swear no one in this castle will have to worry about nasty smells—they will have to worry about me. Then, I assure you, you will not only know what hell smells like, but what it tastes like, too. Do you understand? Do you all understand?”
They all nodded so meekly that Sylvalla smiled, happy the argument was over.
“Good, good, then.” Sylvalla walked out the door with an unwarranted confidence, even as her mother cried out after her. “It is a fool’s errand. You should stay here, where you’re needed.”
“Maybe, but I have to try something.” The idea of jewels that captured minds was unsettling. Sylvalla needed to know what was happening in those kingdoms, and what, if anything, could be done about it.
Where are those blighted wizards when I need them?
Pan Cakes
A pot clattered to the floor. Amarinda jolted.
The thurgle, Fergus, was trying to squeeze into the kitchen, not completely successfully ducking pots and pans.
“What have you got for me?” he demanded, thumping a fist on a table. The manky vegetables jumped.
Evil Cook turned white and dropped her new wooden spoon. She looked about until her eyes rested on Amarinda. “You! Deal with the brute.” She shoved Amarinda toward Fergus.
“Um,” Amarinda said, approaching the thurgle warily. This was going to be the scariest thing she’d ever done. If Fergus was smaller than a giant—she never wanted to see a giant. She bobbed a curtsey. “Sir, what would you like? We have pies and ale, and bread, as you can see. I could check…” She swallowed. What will he do if we don’t have what he wants? “I could check the pantry.”
He followed her.
She pulled out mince pies and other treats, but he shook his head at each one.
She was trying not to shake. “What did you do to upset Cook?” She’d hardly realised she was asking the question aloud.
“Cook pointed a wooden spoon at me—I broke it. Should I have killed her? Was it a duel to the death?”
Amarinda laughed. “Yeah—no. It’s probably, like, best to think humans aren’t planning to duel to the death—unless they say so. Or they wave a sword at you.”
He let her rattle through a few more cupboards, before asking, “Do you have poppy seed cakes?”
“Ahhh. No, but we do have some poppy seeds. I could make you some poppy seed pancakes, if you like?”
“Could you? Could you show me how?” He seemed eager now—but what if they weren’t what he wanted? “They might not be what you’re used to.”
“Show me, anyway.”
Amarinda popped butter on the skillet and mixed the flour and salt and poppy seeds. “So, why do you work for Arrant?” she dared ask. “He’s so mean.”
The butter gently sizzled.
“Mmm,” the thurgle said. “Gold to get back home.”
“And I thought Arrant was off keeping the kingdom safe,” Amarinda lied. “So, why aren’t you with him?”
“The kingdom’s not safe.” Fergus turned to watch Amarinda, gauging her reaction.
That’s a big admission. So he knows Arrant’s out raiding, and leaving the thurgle behind.
“That butter is spitting,” he said.
“Perfect,” she said. She took the pan off the heat and beat in the eggs and butter, added a squeeze of lemon juice, and a handful of currants for sweetness. “Okay, this should work.”
She held her breath. Would the pancake be light enough? It bubbled nicely—and tore when she flipped it.
The Thurgle didn’t seem to mind, he to
ok the pieces one at a time and popped them into his mouth, still piping hot.
“Another,” he said.
Her co-workers looked at her sideways. But they dared say nothing. Suddenly Amarinda was enjoying this day, with this weird but very dangerous thurgle, more than the rest of her time in this horrid place.
Straw Men
It’s what’s inside that is truly important
Mr Goodfellow closed his eyes. It was obvious, even to him, that Dothie was no longer the person on trial. I am.
All the evidence he’d accumulated counted for nothing. Dalberth’s testimony meant nothing. In fact, against all Dalberth’s objections the prophet was being kept here until they decided what to do with him.
If I can’t convince them Dothie was a more-than-willing accomplice of Phetero, it’s all over—Dalberth and I will be dead men—and we won’t be the only ones.
Once more, Capro Goodfellow tried. “Please listen…”
The supposedly-neutral judge glared at him—and interrupted again. “You, Mr Goodfellow have—”
But whatever Capo had or hadn’t done was forgotten as the courtroom doors burst open.
Two people were brought in on litters—a small girl, and a deathly pale Jonathan spouting unintelligible strings of words while clutching his ridiculous backpack. They were both trailed by a bevy of pen-wielding prophesors.
Mr Goodfellow senior ran to his son and shook his shoulder. “Why in all hells are you here? Snap out of it.”
Jonathan flopped limply but did not cease his yammering.
His chest constricted. “When did this happen? Why did nobody tell me?”
“He just…he just…” a wizard stuttered,
Mr Goodfellow senior pulled at the sleeves of his robes searching for ingredients. “Jonathan? Jonathan, can you hear me? How could you make the same mistake twice?”
“The end is the beginning, the means is the end, and all words of prophecy are wrong. It was no mistake, Father,” Jonathan said, blinking furiously.
“Foolish, foolish boy,” Capro muttered, procuring a mortar and pestle from his robes to roughly grind herbs and smelling salts.
The tincture smelled like rose blossom. It was ready.
Jonathan warbled something and the scribbling intensified—a moment later, every pen in the room burst.
“Out! Get out!” Capro yelled, deaf to the howls of anger. “You parasites have had all the words you will ever get.”
“But they are prophets…”
“Not any more. There will be no more prophecies, do you understand? Now. Go!”
Wizards scattered. No doubt to grab more quills and make their protest to the proper authorities.
The judge glared, uncertain as to what to do.
Don’t tip your hand—or we’ll know you’re biased, Capro thought at him.
The judge glared around, deaf to entreaties. “I think we might as well call a recess,” he barked and stalked out—chased by Dothie and all his lot, leaving Dalberth, Capro, Jonathan and the girl alone.
Jonathan sat up.
“Thank the heavens,” Capro Goodfellow said, breathing a sigh of relief. “But what were you thinking?” He looked over at the child. “Is she all right, too?”
“I think she will be. Now, hurry, we have to get out of here.” Jonathan picked the child off her litter and handed her to Dalberth.
“It’s hopeless,” Dalberth said. The girl snuggled up against his chest and whimpered.
“Not yet,” Jonathan said. “But I didn’t come here to kick my heels. I came to help you escape.”
Capro lifted his shaggy eyebrows. And smiled. “Yes, yes, Jonathan. Well done. I’ll just need a moment.” He opened a secret door, pulled out a light-stone and strode off down the dusty, spider-webbed corridor. “Come along. Hurry,” he said. “We need to nip back to my rooms. Seeing as I won’t be coming back again any time soon, all the scrolls I don’t take—everything here—is yours, Jonathan, when you come back. If you come back. After all, there might be nothing to come back to.”
Capro burst through the door into his own wardrobe. Ushering them all into his room, he glanced over his shelves, sifting through them and looking for various powerful trinkets. “Fool, boy.” He tutted. “Now you stand back, while I grab this vase. Its magic is pretty strong. And we don’t need any of your visions right now, do we? Oh, look, slippery elm, I thought I’d lost that. When you were young, you’d throw this on the floor and skid around like you were ice-skating.”
“Hurry, Father.”
“I can’t leave these books behind—oh, I know, I don’t suppose you’ve got any room in that backpack of yours?” Capro asked wistfully.
“I thought you didn’t approve of backpacks?”
“I do approve of these books.”
“Fine. But, for all the gods, hurry. There’s not much time.”
Mumbling away to himself, Mr Goodfellow senior continued sorting through various jars and popping them into Jonathan’s pack.
“It could be a little bigger,” Capro Goodfellow muttered. The pack stretched alarmingly.
Jonathan looked slantwise at his suddenly overstuffed pack. “You want me to carry all that?”
“A trifle, a mere trifle. You should see everything I’m carrying.”
“You aren’t…”
“You don’t look, boy. How will you ever see if you never look?” Now, give me a minute and I’ll be done. You’ve got everything you need, haven’t you?”
“Yep. I only came back for you. Well…I…er, I let them bring me, it was the best way. I told you, I have seen…” Jonathan stopped.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“Pesky wizards, they’re here already. But don’t panic, there’s still a chance,” Jonathan said, and headed back to the secret corridor.
Maey, clinging to Dalberth, whimpered, and Dalberth shook his head.
“Dalberth’s right, it’s far too late for that,” Capro mumbled. “We—”
The First Wizard himself burst into Mr Goodfellow senior’s room flanked by two powerful, if slightly dim-witted magic users. Red-faced, and still puffing, the First Wizard raised his gnarled finger in accusation.
Jonathan ignored the preamble. “Good sir.” He bowed, and with one of his annoying grins shook the First Wizard’s papery hand. “Delighted,” he said. “Although, I must say you do look very tired. I don’t suppose I could interest you in a bottle of Granny’s Cure All?”
Jonathan opened the jar and the First Wizard shied away from the potion.
That’s weird. Is the First Wizard frightened of Cure All?
“Nothing like it,” Jonathan beamed. “All your aches and pains will fade away—” Jonathan kept up his trader’s hustle. “Go on, you try it,” he said, accidentally brushing the man’s hand with some of the ointment. “It’s miraculously healing.”
“That’s quite enough. It’s time we resolved this trial, gentlemen. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s, as it were, hey?”
The man acts like I’m an imbecile. Still, are his eyes clearer? Or am I imagining things?
Worried Jonathan’s wizard-speech would be overheard and used against them, Mr Goodfellow senior raised an eyebrow, and added a pointed shake of the head.
They were almost back at the courtroom when Dothie appeared. He looked at Jonathan and licked his lips. The tuatara on his shoulder did the same. It was weird. Something about that lizard-creature was different, but Mr Goodfellow senior couldn’t put his finger on it.
Jonathan tried to ignore him, but the instant they entered the already-packed courtroom, Dothie yelled, “By the gods, it’s true!” He pointed at Jonathan. “I recognise him now! The other evil wizard who tried to raise Phetero’s demons.”
“Do you feel it?” Jonathan’s voice cut over the top of Dothie’s lies.
Jonathan addressed his question to the court again, ignoring Dothie as he persisted on yelling his untruths to the crowd.
“Do I feel what?” the First Wiza
rd asked.
“The lies. The untruth. The malice. I can feel it in my blood. It comes from behind that man.”
Capro rolled his eyes. His son was a born charlatan, a hawker of suspicious goods. How would anybody believe he saw something they did not? Why did I even listen to the boy?
§
Jonathan ignored his father’s rolled eyes, and Dothie’s laugh. The other two prophets could feel it, too. The Rieal-demon that sat in the man’s head twisting everything he saw. But they could see what the wizards could not, by seeing between the lines of prophecy[95].
Maey lifted her injured hand. “That which can be seen and is unseen.”
Dothie visibly flinched.
Taking a handful of Cure All, Jonathan threw it as hard as he could at the plinth-like foundation stone of the university. For the blink of an eye, a shadow hovered there for everyone to see. It was a demented creature, sinuous and diabolic for all that it was once human. Its neck twisted so that its distorted head could whisper into Dothie’s ear.
Several spells were hurled at Dothie, and more at the apparition itself.
Dothie hurled a fruit-fly spell back at one of his attackers.
Mr Goodfellow senior threw a counter-spell, slamming up a multi-coloured shield against Dothie’s attack.
Sparks flew. Wizards ducked (I was amongst them, trying to keep out of the line of fire and protect my notes). Other wizards fled as the firefight ramped up between those who believed their eyes, those who thought the apparition was some kind of Goodfellow trick, and those who were genuinely so blinded by Dothie that they’d never see anything bad about the man.
The First Wizard reached the front of the court. He shuddered and twitched. “Stop this!” His whole body spasmed.
Jonathan stood. “See—” he started but did not finish.
Dothie was smiling in the eye of the storm. That awful smile meant he was up to something. And he was standing where his power was greatest, right on top of the foundation stone in the centre of the room.
Behind Jonathan, Mr Goodfellow senior did the sensible thing. “Run!” he yelled, pulling Jonathan and Dalberth toward the exit already crammed with fleeing wizards. Maey still clutched in his arms, Dalberth was struggling.
