The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  “Yes, sir,” said Arodilac, for that was who the other soldier was. “But, sir, I think that—”

  “You’re staying here, that’s an order, you understand?”

  “But, sir—”

  “You’re in charge of keeping an eye on the castle. Keep a lookout for your, uh, uncle, but keep away from him. Far away. Don’t let him see you or any of your men, if you can help it. Don’t forget what I told you. He isn’t precisely your uncle anymore.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Arodilac. “I was never fond of him anyway, sir.”

  “Stow it, Bridd. Post a guard outside the castle walls at all time and keep out of trouble. All right, Lucan, the city’s yours. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lucan snapped a salute. The sound of Owain and Bordeall’s horses’ hooves echoed from the cobblestones under the arch of the gate. And then they were out in the rain, past the wall and cantering after the rest of the little army as it marched away into the rain.

  “Right, Bridd,” said Lucan. “You heard the captain. Take three men and detail a guard duty at the castle.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Arodilac, trudging off. “Some people have all the fun.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SHAME OF THE PRINCE

  Damarkan rose up out of the desert, sudden and shimmering in the noonday sun. Declan thought it another mirage at first, another mirage in a long succession of vanishing wells, caravans, and fat men pushing carts piled high with ices and fruits and chilled wine. He was heartily sick of the desert and he was sure his horse was even more disgusted. The poor beast grumbled and hung its head as they plodded along the dusty track.

  But the city did not vanish. The towers rose white and shining in the sun, waiting serenely behind the high stone walls of pale yellow. The walls looked as smooth as freshly churned butter, patted down into immense building blocks, but as Declan drew nearer, he saw that their surfaces were scarred from the years of the wind driving sand against them.

  The road became populated with fellow travelers. It was a strange thing. Only an hour previously and he had been the only one on the road. A caravan of dusty mules appeared out of the desert. A child perched on a donkey laden with sacks of figs, clucking and calling encouragement to the beast. A herd of goats popped up out of nowhere. Several dogs ran careful circles around them, while the goats eyed the dogs with malevolent yellow eyes. Declan rubbed his own eyes. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought. But there were no other roads in sight. No houses. No towns huddled in among the stony cliffs. Still, the people appeared out of the desert, drifting along like the sand. The road was soon busy.

  And then they were under the city wall. It loomed up above their heads. The gates stood open. Iron and wood bleached white by years of sun. Guards stood as still as stone on either side with spears in their hands. The arch of the gate curved overhead, carved with strange designs. Declan looked about him curiously once he had passed through the gate. In all of his travels he had never been to Damarkan. Even as a child over the course of years of crisscrossing the duchies of Tormay, his father had never brought them to Harth. It was too far away. It was almost a separate country, separate from the rest of Tormay.

  The streets were narrower than those in Hearne. The buildings were higher, constructed of blocks of stone and flat roofs, so that each street was sunk in shadow unless the sun happened to be overhead. Bougainvillea grew everywhere he looked, climbing up walls and spilling down from trellises and over the edges of roofs in extravagant washes of red bloom. There was a quietness to the city, despite its size and the crowded streets. People walked sedately and did their business in murmurs. There was none of the bustling and shouting and yelling common in the Hearne marketplaces. Merchants did not insult and argue with their customers.

  Perhaps the climate’s heat requires that people act slowly, thought Declan to himself. In the cold north, people must shout and yell and generally behave like donkeys in order to keep their blood stirred. Here, the sunlight boils it for you.

  He watered his horse at a stone fountain in a small square. Awnings stretched out from the sides of the houses. The ubiquitous bougainvillea spilled along the walls and dangled down in luxuriant falls. Blooms lay scattered in the street, some crushed underfoot, and the air was thick with their sweet scent.

  “Pardon me,” he said to a passing old man.

  The old man stopped and bowed courteously.

  “Can you tell me how to get to the king’s palace? I am a stranger in your city.”

  “Assuredly. You are certainly a stranger if you do not know the way to the heart of our city. All roads in Harth lead to the palace of our most glorious Oruso Oran. However, I will show you the straightest way, for you look as if you have come a long way and need not waste any more of your journey conversing with an old man such as I.”

  “Which would certainly be one of the more pleasant parts of my journey.”

  The old man smiled and bowed again in response.

  Declan had done well to ask directions; for despite the apparently square and straightforward appearances of the streets and the buildings that lined them wall by wall, the deeper he went into the city the more the streets twisted and turned until he knew that he traversed a labyrinth. The horse beneath him sighed as if to say When will all of this be over? and I would appreciate a bite of oats just now.

  Declan patted the horse’s neck and murmured soothingly.

  The street widened and the polished ivory gates of the palace stood before him in all their splendor. Beyond them, the domes and towers of the palace rose in a mountain of white marble, peaks, crags, and spires, all topped with flags snapping in the breeze.

  “Your business, sir?” said the officer at the gate.

  “I’ve traveled here on behalf of the Lord Captain of the Guard of Hearne,” said Declan. “I’ve word for the King of Harth.”

  That and the manner of Declan’s bearing were enough to get him past the officer, who was still young enough to be made uneasy by a stern eye and the mention of such a notable as the Lord Captain of Hearne. They took his horse with the promise that it would be curried and fed in his absence. They also took his pack and, with the utmost tact, relieved him of his sword. The officer then handed him over to a young page who strutted along at Declan’s side and sniffed in disdain at the state of his dusty clothing.

  The gates opened into an immense garden plumed with peacocks and flowers and tinkling fountains and trees shadowing mossy grottoes. Everything was manicured, and here and there Declan saw white-garbed gardeners flitting about with shears and pruning hooks and rakes, dealing with errant greenery. An avenue led through the garden to steps wide enough for a troop of horsemen to have ridden up them side by side. Halfway up the steps, to the irritation of the page, a steward waited to take charge of Declan. He was even less impressed with Declan than the page had been and demanded to see his letter of introduction from Owain Gawinn, though his demand was couched in courtesy. They passed through polished hardwood doors into a vast and airy space, a hall of shadows and drifting figures and whispers. Gold and silver glimmered in sculptures, hangings of twisted metal thread, and inlaid designs in the marble walls.

  “The king is in his council chambers,” said the steward, “but perhaps, if luck is with you, he will shortly adjourn to the great hall and there deign to hear whatever supplicant might come before him. In the great hall, all may come before him, rich or poor.”

  “I’m not a supplicant,” said Declan dryly. “I come with a message from the Lord Captain of Hearne, and he with the power of the regency at his beck.”

  “Be that as it may,” said the steward, equally as dryly. “Hearne is far from Damarkan these days, and no one approaches the king in his council chambers.”

  The great hall was indeed great. The ceiling soared up into a mosaic of blues and whites so cunningly done that it seemed the room opened up into the sky rather than simple stone. Slender pillars rose in groves as if perfect, l
eafless trees grew in that place. At the far end of the room, several thrones sat empty on a raised dais. And everywhere that Declan turned, there were people. They stood patiently throughout the room, a crowd waiting in silence.

  The steward ushered Declan up toward the front of the room, gently but firmly pushing his way through the crowd. As they progressed nearer to the dais, Declan noticed that the people looked wealthier and wealthier. The great hall might be open to both rich and poor, but clearly the rich found some advantage in their position. The steward’s progress slowed to a struggle until he gave up in defeat, cowed into submission by an elderly lady in a tiara and possessed of a piercing stare. The steward turned, looking embarrassed.

  “Perhaps, sir,” he said, “we will wait here until the king chooses to appear.”

  And so they waited. As he stood there, Declan became aware of an ache in his back and his legs. It had been a long ride. Three days at a near gallop. Seven different horses changed at inns along the way. There was a sharper ache in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since the previous night. And then Giverny’s face sprang into his mind and that was the worst ache of all. Anger filled his stomach and he swallowed hard.

  Declan realized the steward was whispering to him.

  “. . . his Majesty or his Highness will both equally do. Do not look him in the eyes but keep your gaze fixed below his feet. On no account should a question be addressed to him. His Majesty asks the questions—he and he alone. Do not bore him, anger him, or test his credulity. Do not question his word, for even if it differs from what you hoped for, know that his wisdom is beyond yours and in it is your expectation fulfilled, though you realize it not at the time. Above all else, do not mention the Errant Wars, for his Majesty has a long memory and does not look kindly on the past.”

  Doubtless, the steward would have continued, even after such a beginning, but at that moment there was a commotion at the front of the hall. Doors swung open and a great many splendid personages strode in. The crowd was forced back. Declan found himself wedged between a fat man and the elderly lady in the tiara. The tiara was encrusted with emeralds, apparent now that he could afford a closer look, and he found himself wondering whether Jute would have been able to steal it without disturbing the lady. Sleight-of-hand theft had never been his forte. His talent had always been in killing people.

  A trumpet sounded and a hush fell over the hall. The king of Harth had come. He was a tall man, tall with massive hands and an even more massive head, but his body had gone to fat, encouraged by the depredations of age and dissolute living. Yet, though there was a slack cast to his mouth and in his eyes, the softness was not enough to mask the hardness beneath. Silk flowed around him, and the whispering noise of its passage across the marble floor was the loudest sound in the room. The king sat down on his throne. Others sat in the grand chairs near him, but Declan did not see their faces. His attention was concentrated on the king. He could already taste the disappointment sour in his mouth. This man. On this man had Owain Gawinn pinned such hopes. Harth could field a powerful army. The biggest army in all of Tormay. It had the people and it had the treasury. But this man on the throne would never agree to such a request. Not unless there was something in it for Harth. Something more immediate than the unsubstantiated claims of a man, a boy, and a hawk.

  On the dais, the court chamberlain stepped forward. He was dressed in black and carried an ivory staff.

  “Silence!” said the chamberlain, his voice sharp and carrying. It was a needless thing to say, as the hall was already silent despite the crowd gathered there. “Silence, before our glorious Lord and Majesty, Oruso Oran, the ninth of his name, yet none more exalted, none more wise, none more excellent and worthy. Silence, before our king.”

  He pounded the staff once on the dais.

  Boom!

  The sound rolled through the hall.

  Boom!

  “Our king, the glorious, the most illustrious Oruso Oran, will now hear the grievances of his petitioners.”

  The staff dipped down to point in unwavering precision. A little man at the front of the crowd glanced around, his face brightening into joy. He rushed forward and fell on his knees before the dais. His words were gabbled, unintelligible to Declan at even such a short distance, but the king bent his head on his throne, intent and listening. The little man’s words ran out, trickling into an arid silence. His face was hopeful and gleaming with sweat. The king spoke. His voice was dry, rasping, like the sound of sand against sand. His voice filled up the hushed room, as if the sand poured down into some vast, empty space. The crowd, which had been silent and motionless before, grew even more silent and motionless. The king’s voice fell still and the little man threw his arms up in desperation, a wail bursting from his mouth. He inched forward on his knees, but before he could even reach the edge of the dais, two guards were at his side, his arms pinned, legs scrabbling uselessly beneath him.

  The chamberlain’s staff pointed once again.

  Another petitioner fell forward on his face before the dais. A voice rose quavering, buoyed by hope. Supplication, veneration, and fear. The staff pointed again and again. Another petitioner, and then another, but still the crowd did not diminish. The mass of people around Declan were fixed, staring, and immobile. The temperature within the room crept higher and, far up on the wall, the sunlight slid across the marble with the shadows in pursuit. The day would soon be done. Another day gone. Another day closer to the spring thaw and the opening of the passes in the Morn Mountains.

  Declan could not control his anger any longer. He shoved the elderly lady to one side, hard, because there was no space for her. Pushed past someone else, several someone elses, and was dimly aware of faces turning toward him in outrage. A hand plucked desperately at the back of his jacket—the steward, no doubt.

  I’m the wrong sort for this, Declan thought dully to himself. I know swords and death and hunting, not words and courts and kings. His anger wearied him and he longed to be back out under the sky, away from walls and roofs and the crushing weight of this city. But then he was through the final ring of people that jealously encircled the front of the dais. Astonishment turned to outrage on the chamberlain’s face. The figures sitting on the dais rose, one and all, except for the king sitting on his throne, immovable.

  “Guards!” called the chamberlain, but the guards were already leaping forward.

  “I’m not a supplicant!” said Declan, his voice loud with fury. The guards’ hands closed on him, yanked him staggering back, but he spoke on. “I’m not a supplicant, nor one of your land! My name’s Declan Farrow. I come as an emissary of the Lord Captain of the Guard of Hearne, the Sword of the Regent of Hearne, and is this how I am treated? Made to kick my heels among your common folk and their whining of goats and cheating scales?”

  The guards paused, for there was sudden doubt in the chamberlain’s eyes. Silence gripped the room. The king did not move on his throne, but his gaze fell on Declan. There was a remoteness in his eyes, something as distant as the long desert horizons, and though those vistas could burn with the day’s heat, they could be deadly cold in the dead of night, and so were the king’s eyes.

  “Hearne is far from Damarkan these days,” said the king.

  “Take him away,” said the chamberlain.

  The guards renewed their hold on Declan.

  “Wait!” said another voice. A man stood up from one of the lesser thrones on the dais. He was dressed in fine raiment, and on his head he bore a crown.

  “Wait, my lord. I know this man as well as any can who have faced another across blades. We met in friendly battle and I deem him of utmost gentility and courtesy. Might we not hear his words on your sufferance and the good will you bear toward me?

  The king bent his head. “On the good will I bear toward you, my son, and on this alone, for my patience wears thin this day.”

  Eaomod, the prince of Harth, bowed to his father, and took again his seat.

  “Speak your piece, man,�
� said the chamberlain.

  “I have a letter here for you, your majesty, a letter from the Lord Captain of Hearne, Owain Gawinn.” Declan handed the roll of parchment to the chamberlain, who frowned, as if the touch of the thing would dirty his hands. “My Lord Gawinn requests the assistance of Harth, for when the winter snow melts in the passes of the Mountains of Morn, then through them will march an army under the command of the duke of Mizra to threaten all of Tormay.”

  The king stirred on his throne.

  “And what does Gawinn expect of Harth?” he said.

  “The aid of your sword, your majesty, for if Hearne falls, then all the duchies will fall in succession. The duke of Mizra has gathered a mighty army and his purposes are orchestrated by the Dark.”

  “The Dark!” The king’s voice was thick with contempt. “What do I care of the Dark, a tale for fools and idle women. And what do I care for Hearne? Did not the armies of Hearne bide their time during the Errant Wars when the blood of Harth ran freely in the desert, when death plucked the flower of this land? Where was Hearne then?”

  Declan bowed his head. “Old times gone by, your Majesty. I would not think to understand the choices made by dead men, but I do know that death is coming to Tormay and we shall fall at its sword unless our hand is strengthened. The courage of Harth is known in the north, your Majesty, and we would be glad of it in these coming days, for winter will soon be at an end.”

  “Harth has never had reason to doubt the friendship of Mizra. They have ever been courteous and mannered in their dealings with us. Harth has no reason to take up sword against them. No reason.”

  There was finality in his words, a closing that fell on Declan’s shoulders like a heavy hand.

  “Your Majesty,” said Declan, stepping forward and blind in his anger to the guards that also stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I have seen his troops, men that look like men but surely are something other, driven and drawn by magic. The Dark waits in that land and its eyes look to the west, to these duchies and the death it might bring them.”