“Now see here,” Tiny protested. “I gots bony knees.”
“Kneel,” Raine repeated in a commanding tone, mouthing the word please to Tiny.
Giving her an injured look, Tiny lowered one knee to the ground.
“There, you see? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Raine propped her hands on her hips and grinned at the children. “And if you think my giant’s something, wait until you see my troll.”
Chapter 14
The Cargal of Fiffe
Queen Balzora was bored. From her throne on the dais, she impatiently regarded the self-important buffoon addressing her. The man was a strutting pigeon, plump and overfed. A fortune in amethysts studded his gray velvet coat and diamonds sparkled on his wide cuffs. Beneath the coat, he wore a mulberry vest tied with gold lacing over his vast paunch. Silver hose shimmered on his thick legs and his stubby feet were encased in gray half boots.
A lavishly plumed hat completed this startling ensemble. Balzora’s gaze lingered on the outlandish concoction. It reminded her of a squashed pudding. Would he cease his prattling, she wondered, if she snatched the hat from his head and crammed it down his throat? She contemplated the notion for a delicious moment and discarded it. It would take a good deal more than a scrap of velvet and a few feathers down the gullet to deter this bloviating ass. Sir Pudding Hat was Porthezar, the Cargal of Fiffe, a vast area of rich grain fields in the southern portion of Balzora’s kingdom, and a person of consequence. The title had been bestowed upon him by Balzora’s father in gratitude for “services to the crown.” Since assuming the throne at the tender age of fifteen, she’d had good reason to question the wisdom of her father’s decision. Nallor had been a loving father and a good man, but a bad sovereign, blind to the greed and ambition of those around him. In the few short years since she’d ascended the throne, Balzora had taken steps to restore the balance of power, slowly removing the corrupt officials who’d gained prominence during her father’s reign.
The Cargal of Fiffe was next on her list.
Porthezar continued his oration, droning on and on about the pressing need for an additional highway tax in Fiffe. Balzora regarded the stout man with mingled amazement and irritation. Plainly, he was utterly confident she would accede to his wishes. And why not? To his way of thinking, she was scarcely more than a girl and he was a rich, influential man, a man accustomed to having his way.
A thief, more like, and no ordinary pickpocket. Porthezar had lined his pockets with the tax proceeds intended for the upkeep of the roads in Fiffe. Balzora’s roads used by her farmers to get their crops to market in the cities of Fortenral, Gambollia, and Chelam.
Stealing from the Crown wasn’t the worst of it. Porthezar’s thugs shamelessly squeezed the farmers of Fiffe, charging them a fee per hoof to use her roads. Since it took as many as six Tannish oxen to pull a single, harvest-laden wagon into the city, Porthezar’s scheme was extremely lucrative. Those who refused to pay were barred from the roads and forced instead to watch their crops rot. Or worse, had their fields and homes torched by his hirelings.
Balzora drummed her nails on the arm of her throne and pondered Porthezar’s punishment. Rotting in a dungeon was too good for him, execution too quick. She would have him rolled in rotten fruit and chained in the sewer for the rats to gnaw on. Fortenral was a prosperous city—with big, fat rats.
The idea appealed. She sighed. Alas, there was always the possibility the rats would refuse to eat him out of professional courtesy.
Porthezar mopped his heated face with a silk handkerchief and favored Balzora with an oily smile. “Life has been good to me, Majesty, as you can see.” Tucking the handkerchief back in his pocket, he toyed with the amethysts at his throat. “But then a man of my talents should expect no less, what?”
Balzora had reached the end of her patience. “Greedy, some would call you.” She tapped her sandaled foot on the green and white marble floor. “I fear, dear Cargal, that there have been . . . rustlings from Fiffe.”
“Rustlings, you say?” He waved a fat hand in dismissal. “The mouthings of lesser men. The weak are ever jealous of the powerful. I am ambitious—this I readily admit. ’Twas a quality your late father appreciated. Nallor and I were the best of friends, and he relied upon my counsel, may the gods give him rest.” He fixed her with an indulgent smile. “’Tis my fervent hope that you and I will be friends, as well.”
I do not doubt it, Balzora thought. Porthezar’s proposed increase would fill his coffers to overflowing. Thanks to his brazen thievery, the Cargal was already a wealthy man, but it was not enough. Porthezar wanted more. It was always the way with such men. Money meant power. More money meant more power, and so it went.
Her gaze drifted once more to the ludicrous hat. Sweet Rebe, but the man was a popinjay.
Noting her perusal, Porthezar reached up and stroked a feather drooping from the brim. “You admire my hat, Majesty? My tailor assures me this style is all the rage in Gambollia.”
“I can honestly say I’ve never seen the like.”
He strutted a little to better give the gathered courtiers a better view of his magnificence. “I bask in your approval, Majesty. I made the journey to Fortenral expecting an audience with a child. Instead, I find a beautiful young woman.”
“Your tone belies the compliment. Are youth and beauty such an encumbrance, then?”
“Of a certainty, Majesty.” His gaze caressed her curves. “A wholly delightful encumbrance, but an encumbrance, nonetheless. The world is harsh and filled with pitfalls, and your youth and naïveté leave you at a disadvantage. Happily, I am at your disposal.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you would benefit from a man of my experience and intelligence.”
Balzora propped her chin in her hand and considered him. “Let there be plain speaking between us, Porthezar. Are you offering yourself as consort to the crown?”
Porthezar executed a creaky bow that was abbreviated by the stays he wore. “Though such a thought had not occurred, if your Majesty will have me, then yes. A thousand times yes.”
“You are a bold man, Porthezar.”
“In the face of such temptation, what man would not be? Your beauty is dazzling.”
And my purse, Balzora thought with the cynicism of a lifetime spent at court. Gods above and below, the man had stones the size of melons.
A commotion at the other end of the throne room drew her attention, and Balzora sat up, straightening her crown as a noisy group of men pushed through the doors. “Ah,” she said. “At last, we have a diversion from the tedium.”
Porthezar spied the interlopers, and his unctuous expression darkened to one of fury. “Farmers from my district, rabble-rousing scoundrels, Majesty,” he said, barreling across the room to intercept them. “I shall deal with the riff raff.”
Placing his stout body between the farmers and the throne, he began to bluster. The crowd in the throne room muttered in alarm, adding to the din. A plain-faced fellow with large, rough hands stepped forward. Shoving Porthezar aside, he waved a piece of parchment at Balzora and shouted something at her. The royal guards closed ranks to protect their queen. The farmer with the big hands tried to push through. There was a meaty thud as one man took a swing at the other, and a scuffle ensued.
“Enough,” Balzora said, rising to her feet.
The room stilled and Porthezar turned to stare, his eyes widening at her commanding tone.
“You.” Balzora waved an imperious hand at the farmer with the pamphlet. “Come closer. I would speak with you.”
“There is no need, Majesty, I assure you,” Porthezar sputtered. His jowls quivered with indignation. “The man is a troublemaker, a veritable—”
“Silence,” Balzora said. “I’ve heard more than enough from you, Porthezar.”
She cocked a brow and the guards parted to let the startled farmer through. Th
e man took a hesitant step closer to the throne, halting in surprise as a red hawk glided through one of the high, open windows.
With a high-pitched kee-eeee-arr, the bird dived at the assembled courtiers. Balzora’s ladies-in-waiting squealed in alarm and scattered like blossoms on a breeze.
Mumfort, Balzora’s ancient secretary, woke with a start. “What is this?” The hawk swooped by. “Shoo, bird, shoo,” he said, swinging the scroll in his hand at the bird. “Go away.”
The bird veered, depositing a large dollop of droppings on Porthezar’s velvet hat as it winged over the crowd. Excrement dripped onto the Cargal’s nose and cheeks. Bellowing like an enraged bull, Porthezar climbed onto a spindly chair to take a swat at the hawk. The hat and the bird connected in an explosion of feathers.
“There,” Porthezar shouted, dancing on the chair. “Take a shite on my new hat, would you?”
The chair broke and Porthezar crashed to the floor, landing on his back like an upended turtle. Wheezing, he tried to suck air into his empty lungs. A single red feather floated down and stuck to the goo on his nose.
And to think but a moment ago, I was bored, Balzora thought, suppressing an unqueenly giggle.
Regaining her composure, she turned to address the hawk now perched on a buttress. “My thanks, Sir Hawk, for the entertainment. Come down, at once, for I would speak to you.”
The hawk regarded her coldly. Bending its head, the bird began to preen its feathers. Balzora resisted the urge to stamp her feet in exasperation. Not only would it be undignified, but she had only herself to blame. This one, as she should well know, did not respond to commands.
“Won’t you please come down?” she asked in a honeyed tone. “Our present angle of discourse is apt to give me the neck ache.”
The bird screed in answer and glided off the rafter. Landing at her feet, the hawk shimmered and a man stood in its place. And not just any man. The devil was handsome as ever, Balzora noted, drinking in the sight of him, and he still wore the same tatty cloak, now made even more disreputable by a large hole on one side.
He inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”
He did not bow. Of course, he did not bow. The man had no patience for what he deemed “courtly flummery,” and deferred to no one, not even his queen.
He gazed up at her, his gray eyes twinkling. Impossible man. He was trying to annoy her a-purpose.
“Brefreton,” Balzora said, not rising to the bait. “You still like to make an entrance, I see.”
A ripple of excitement went through the crowd at the wizard’s name. Brefreton and his exploits were well-known, though not, necessarily, his face. He was reclusive and seldom at court. When he did make a rare appearance, it was invariably in disguise.
“You seemed a trifle . . . listless, Majesty. I sought only to amuse.” He searched her face. “I find you well?”
“Yes, but there are a few matters I should like to discuss with you.” She hesitated, aware of the sea of curious faces surrounding them. “In private, if you please.”
“As you wish. Shall we withdraw to the library?”
“Yes, by all means.”
The library was her favorite place—their place.
Brefreton held out his hand. Head high, Balzora descended the steps of the dais to meet him. With a nod of dismissal at the farmers and courtiers, she glided across the throne room on the sorcerer’s arm. They had nearly made good their escape when Porthezar stepped in front of them, barring their way.
“This . . . this gester has accosted me and ruined my new hat.” Porthezar’s plump cheeks were flushed with anger. “’Tis an insult not to be born.”
“Gester?” Brefreton’s expression grew thunderous. “I should turn you into a dung beetle for that, you insufferable twit.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the Cargal of Fiffe shot back. “I was addressing the queen.”
“My dear Porthezar,” Balzora said, “you have been addressing me this hour and more. Go away. You weary me.”
“Nay, I will not.” He planted his feet and glared at Brefreton. “I refuse to budge the length of a barleycorn until this . . . this dabbler receives his deserts.”
“Is it justice you seek, then, Porthezar?” Balzora asked, tilting her head to regard the pompous lordling. “Have a care, sir, with your answer.”
“Yes, Majesty. I want justice. Indeed, I demand it.”
“Justice it shall be, then.” Balzora straightened and said in a ringing voice, “Porthezar, Cargal of Fiffe, I hereby strip you of rank and title and order you confined to the pig keep. There, under the supervision of Riggs, the royal swineherd, you will tend the pigs whilst you await trial.”
“Trial?” Porthezar’s eyes bulged. “On what charge, pray?”
“Extortion and theft from the crown, to start, but those are the least of your crimes, I feel certain.” Balzora shook her head. “You have been naughty, Porthezar, very, very naughty.”
“You can’t do this,” Porthezar protested as the farmer with the big hands lifted him and tossed him bodily to the guards. “I’m an important man. I have friends . . . Powerful friends. You can’t do this, do you hear me?”
Balzora lifted her brows in gentle reproof. “My dear Porthezar, you seem to be operating under a misapprehension. I can do whatever I like. I’m the queen.”
Chapter 15
The Queen’s Proposal
The guards hauled Porthezar, kicking and screaming, from the room. Ignoring the scandalized buzzing of the onlookers, Balzora strolled from the chamber at Brefreton’s side. They reached the sanctuary of the library, and she closed the door with a grateful sigh.
“What a morning,” she said, massaging her throbbing temples. “I thought I should die of boredom listening to that old waggle jaw. I wish you had turned him into a dung beetle.”
“You should have let those farmers have him.” Brefreton flung himself onto a window seat with a view of the city. “You’ve known this age and more the man’s a bully and a cheat. I would’ve had him arrested the moment he set foot in the city.”
A lock of hair slipped free of her tiara. With an absentminded gesture, she tucked the offending curl behind her ear. “I was curious to see how far he would brazen it out. I underestimated his hubris, I fear. I kept waiting for him to wind down, but he kept talking and talking. I’ve never known such a windbag.”
“I have.”
She flashed her dimples at him. “Yes, but I’m not two thousand years old.”
“Two thousand and eight,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Thanks for reminding me, brat.” He crossed his ankles and lounged against the cushions. “You handled yourself rather well back there. Very queenly.”
Balzora’s cheeks warmed at his praise. Flustered, she crossed the room to her desk and made a business of straightening a manuscript. “You needn’t sound so surprised. Father’s been dead almost three years. I’ll be nineteen in a few months.” She glanced at him through her lashes. “More than old enough to marry.”
“Impossible,” Brefreton said with a shake of his head. “Only yesterday you were five and bringing me a bird with a broken wing to mend.”
She laughed. “I was a pest. I was always giving my tutors the slip to find you.”
“I remember. The whole palace would be in an uproar looking for you.” He patted the cushion, indicating the hollow box beneath him. “And, all the while, you’d be hiding here.”
“It was kind of you to keep my secret.”
“What? And spoil all the fun? Tell me, do you still make it a habit?”
“Hiding in the cabinets? No, though many days it’s tempting.”
“I’m relieved to hear it, Your Majesty. Think of the scandal should the Royal Carpenter be summoned to remove the queen from the window seat.”
She looked up at the quiver of amusement in his voi
ce and felt her heart give a queer little lurch. She threaded her fingers together in her lap to conceal her nervousness. Since her father’s death, Brefreton’s visits to the palace had become infrequent. This could be her one chance.
“The Council grows restless,” she said. “They want an heir to the throne. I must marry soon.”
“Marry?” He frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a child.”
“I am not a child.” Striding around the desk, she stood in front of him. “Look at me, Bree.” She put her hands on her hips. “Look at me.”
“Is that a command, Majesty?”
“Don’t you dare get stuffy with me. I mean it, Bree. You may not realize it—no, I know you don’t—but I’m a woman grown.”
“You’re angry.” His voice held surprise. “You’ve never been angry with me before. Shall I pull you into my lap and kiss away your bad humor?”
“Stop teasing. I’m serious.”
“I can see that you are.” Propping one elbow on the window sill, Brefreton smiled up at her.
Balzora stood still, waiting as his gaze moved over her woman’s body, small, but well-formed, with its curving hips and soft, inviting breasts. His smile faded and she knew the moment, the exact moment that he saw her, really saw her.
“Rebe,” Brefreton swore, sitting up. “How did this happen, Zora?”
“In the usual manner—I grew up.” She lifted her chin. “If you came around more often, you might have noticed.”
“You know I have no patience for court life. Too many fools and bootlickers. I’m much happier puttering about my little cottage.”
“Indeed? Then you have a double. You’ve been spotted in Topallon, the Citadel, and everywhere between.”
“Spying on me, Zozo?”
“I prefer to think of it as keeping an eye on my assets.”
“An asset, am I?” He chuckled. “Impudent chit.”
The sound of his deep voice made her quiver. Oh, but he was a charming rogue, and she’d ever been susceptible to his appeal. This was going to be harder than she’d thought.
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