“Not in this case, boy, not in this case.” Mashkent clapped his hands imperiously and a hireling scuttled forth, bowing with the prescribed humility—ten gold pieces for a year’s worth of humility, to be exact. For fifteen, one purchased a hireling who would do a full genuflection at each encounter, but Mashkent considered this a waste of money. “Revive the lady and amuse her.”
“Amuse her, great one? What is—er—her pleasure?”
“How am I to know? We’ve just met. But she is an illustrious personage. Show her my nightingales, show her the—show her the pool. That’s it. Let her select a vision from the pool, and put it on account for her. Perhaps in that way we shall learn her price.”
“Her price?” Mirza was baffled. “Uncle, didn’t you say we had to give her a remedy? What is this talk of price?”
“Come,” Mashkent said, and smiled into his beard.
Chapter 9
“So good of you to come,” Docho Droughtsea said as the three new captives were indelicately unloaded into the cavern beneath Prince Loefric’s private bathtub. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you all here—”
“Spare us the rhetoric, please, Milord,” Rusty said. She sat, apparently unhurt, with her back against a dripping river wall.
“I was wondering, Your Grace,” Jack said sincerely. He always wondered about things like being attacked in the middle of the night by monsters in supposedly monster-proof castles.
“I thought you would be. I’ve had you brought here to offer you a unique business opportunity.” He clasped his hands behind his back and tried to pace the water-slick floor of the cavern. A pair of torches wedged in cracks in the glitter-speckled rock walls showed a narrow spring bubbling along the length of one wall. It was fed by the waterfalls, ranging from rivulet to stream-size, which wandered down the walls like stragglers late to a meeting.
Droughtsea looked appropriately sinister, his face lengthened and shadowed by the up-slanting light, so that the out-thrusting shelf of his brow veiled his eyes, except for an occasional flash of reflected light. The monsters huddled well away from the torches, and muttered and snarled among themselves as Docho talked. They seemed to be afraid of him.
“Business opportunity? Is that a new euphemism for being unlawfully imprisoned, Your Grace?” Kilgilles asked. His sword had been taken from him, but Jack noticed the shield was propped against his knee, its device too deep in shadow to be read.
“Always leaping to conclusions; you Suleskerians,” the Duke chided. “I wasn’t going to discuss this with you until afterwards. It was your decision to leave your rooms and go wandering despite the deterrent spell I had cast on the corridors to and from the bedrooms to prevent just such interruptions. How did you get past my spell anyway?”
Carole carefully avoided looking at the shield, which Jack saw that she too had noticed. “I broke the enchantment with a spell of my own. We heard noises—”
“Hmm. I’ll remember next time to bring a pall of silence with me. Thank you, young lady. You’re already proving my instinct to keep you intact was a wise one, despite Dame Belburga’s protests to the contrary.”
“Mother!” Rusty spat. “So she’s behind all this!”
“No, no, Milady. Far from it. Oh, not that she doesn’t think she’s behind it, but what she thinks is of little consequence. In reality, she is a small part of the plan, as you are and as is Prince Loefrig. You see, after a long and fruitful career as a soldier in the employ of various magnates, I have decided that I am wasting my talent working for others. I have decided to branch out, to use my many talents to go into business for myself. I am, after all, the grandson of a Miragenian djinn, and I trust I do not flatter myself to think that I have inherited the Miragenian genius for administration and the intricacies of commerce.”
“Is that where you got your spell?” Mistress Raspberry asked. “From Miragenia?”
“Originally, yes. In the course of my service to the Frostingdungian Princes, I was called upon to perform a task that has regrettably alienated me from my Miragenian contacts, but fortunately I have a modest backlog of merchandise I acquired in trade with that remarkable land prior to the divergence of our interests. But enough about me. I’m sure you’re anxious to know what is in store for you in this dynamic new venture.”
“Yes, pray do tell us,” Mistress Raspberry said. “We’re simply—you must pardon the expression—dying to know.”
“Do not fear, my poppet.” The Duke smiled. “You won’t be harmed unless you prove unreasonable, and I’m sure you, as Belburga’s daughter, are far too bright for that. Of course, you can’t really begin work until after the preliminaries have been taken care of. While Loefwin remains alive and in power, I cannot afford to trust you not to sell out to him and betray me. Naturally you would. I’d do the same thing in your place. But tomorrow night--no, tonight, I suppose it is!” He clasped his hands together happily. “So close! Tonight, when the Prince and his hunting party are slain by my servants outside the castle gates, I shall put Loefrig on the throne, with myself as his chief adviser, for the time being at least. At that time it will be in your best interests and mine for us to join forces. Until then, I’m afraid, you must consider yourselves not imprisoned exactly, but under detention.”
“Aren’t you risking quite a lot by telling us all this ahead of time?” Kilgilles asked. “What if we escaped and took this plan of yours to Loefwin?”
“In another hour or two that will be impossible, since Loefwin, his personal bodyguard, and the game wardens will scamper off on a merry hunt, far from the confines of this palace. Besides, why should you wish to betray me? You three,” he said and indicated Jack, Rusty, and Carole, “are Argonians, and uninvolved in our political fortunes. While I can understand that you, Milady,” he said and nodded to Rusty, “might have some personal feelings connected with the Empress, I assure you that both she and your mother will be perfectly safe. The delightful Princess Daisy-Esmeralda will replace her. I should think your own fortunes under such circumstances will change very little. As for you, Kilgilles, if rumor about you is true, and I don’t see how it can be otherwise, you have every reason to despise Loefwin and to wish to aid me in establishing my new regime, where with the help of our esteemed foreign colleagues magic will once again flourish within our borders.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Elegance,” Jack said deferentially, “but as one man of the world to another, I must ask what is to be our reward for aiding you?”
“I knew I could count on you to understand, my boy, from the first time I found you lurking outside the door to the bath. Your people are known for their astuteness. Do you know there is a theory that gypsies are merely a nomadic tribe of Miragenians?”
“I am flattered,” Jack said, pulling his forelock humbly. “But I still wish to know about the rewards.”
“Titles for all of you, of course,” the Duke said, “and lands, and good marriages for the ladies, along with optimum conditions to practice your various versions of the Craft, and numerous subjects available for experimentation so that you may develop innovations particularly suited to the Frostingdungian Empire.”
“I should like to be a count,” Jack said. “It is my favorite title.”
“Done,” the Duke said, “as soon as you’ve earned it. Well then, I trust we all understand each other? My associates here will keep you company. Sorry I can’t allow you any light, but they rather dislike it, as you can see, and until Loefwin is defeated, you understand—”
“Perfectly,” Mistress Raspberry said.
“I have a question,” Carole said tightly. “The Princess Anastasia—what have you done with her?”
“The Princess—oh, the swan. I haven’t done anything with her, but I suppose by now she’s probably hanging, developing her flavor to the fullest for the victory banquet night after next. I am so weary of roast monster, aren’t you?”
* * *
Consciousness swam back to Bronwyn, a consciousness full of sil
very tinkling, and cool wetness on her forehead and across her eyes, rich flowery perfumes and something cool and deliciously sweet dripping between her lips. She sat up, and the silken towel sopped in pale wine slipped from her brow, and was deftly caught by a large man with black skin and eyes and a bald head and golden ear hoops. He wore only billowing crimson trousers ending in the mist so favored as footwear by many of the Miragenians she had seen. After catching the towel, he bowed three times saying, “Ah, a great bargain it is to see you healed, illustrious lady. Welcome to the dingy and dog-dirty hovel of my master.” He. indicated the opulent gardens, the splashing fountains of perfumed, many-colored waters, the brilliant peacocks strutting and complaining, the mosaic tiles set in intricate patterns of intertwined blues, grays, and greens in the pathways and walls and interlaced with golden tracery. “Would it please you to eat some tasteless morsel of an inferior brand from my master’s table?”
“I don’t know if I could force another thing down,” Bronwyn said, her dry mouth starting to water again at the thought. “But try me.”
“Ah! Low sales resistance! An excellent quality in a foreign-born lady.” He clapped his massive hands and four beautiful maidens of divers coloring and costume so scanty that they made the mermaids look modest, tripped out bearing silken cushions and trays of sweetened fruits and cakes and a jug of pastel-colored drink which Bronwyn immediately seized. She wondered for about two heartbeats if she endangered her chances of leaving the city again by eating here. She’d heard of people visiting faery kin in their own country, or the underworld, wherever that was, and not being able to return home once they’d accepted food. Looking at and smelling the succulent tidbits, she decided that she didn’t care. If anyone tried to stop her, she’d fight her way out. She ate the contents of four platters by herself and then reclined on the cushions, staring at the sky, while two of the servant girls fanned her. “This is a miserable hovel, isn’t it?” she asked the djinn servant. “I don’t know how you stand it—what’s that?” she pointed overhead as a creature flew gracefully across the open sky above the courtyard.
“What does it look like, high-born?” the servant said.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” she said haughtily. It was obviously the most beautiful stallion in the world, as golden as the sun and borne aloft on a pair of golden feathered wings each a little longer than the horse’s body.
“I mean no offense, high-born, but the creature is in its present form a flying horse, one of a race peculiar to our blessed Anarchy, and a source of great wonder and Profit to many of our citizens, my master included. However, if you wish it to be some other animal, I can easily arrange that.”
“Don’t bother,” Bronwyn said quickly.
“But you must let me do something to amuse you. It is my master’s bidding that you be amused. Perhaps the pool?”
“I don’t need a bath,” Bronwyn said. She definitely did and looked longingly at the bright water, hoping he’d insist. If ten of those girls loaned her an extra costume each, she might manage to make an acceptable change of apparel out of the various bits.
“You misunderstand me, on highly valued one. The pool has the power to show to you in living color and two-dimensional sound any person in any time you wish to observe them. In this pool did my masters watch your approach. This great marvel can take place before your very eyes for a very small sum, and is a bargain at twice the price.”
She wanted to say she hardly thought she could afford the marvel if it were free, but her curse wouldn’t permit her to be so honest, which was just as well. She looked longingly into the pool. It would be marvelous to know how her father was faring at war. He’d probably already sent the Ablemarlonians home to lick their wounds, but she would like to see the final battle, even if she couldn’t actually participate and show him what a dauntless warrior she was. If the war was already won, there’d be no need to recruit the Frostingdungians as allies, either, which suited Bronwyn fine. She didn’t trust any of them.
But her wistful reflections had already activated the pool’s magic, and as the mirrored surface ruffled and calmed an image began to form.
She shot a guilty glance at the servant, but he was nodding and smiling in a benevolent way and waved a ripple-fingered wave at the pool. “Indulge yourself, dear lady. For you, my master has made a special deal, an unprecedented introductory offer to the wares of his firm. Your credit is excellent.”
She didn’t need further encouragement. From the clamor arising from the pool and the flashes of light shooting across its surface, she knew before she looked that the war wasn’t over yet. How nice that she could hear what was happening as well as see it! No doubt someone would soon say, “If only we had the Princess Bronwyn here, the day would be won!” But neither her father nor anyone in what was left of his army was discussing her. They weren’t even fighting.
Instead, they seemed to have decided to go swimming in a thunderstorm. Her father, eyes red, face streaming with water, hair and beard plastered against his skull, clung to a timber bobbing madly in a churning sea. His normal ruddiness had drained away and his face was the yellow-white of a fish’s belly. His chest heaved as he twisted and kicked, trying to maneuver his bit of wood around to his starboard side where a general Bronwyn recognized was unsuccessfully battling the waves. All around him other men on makeshift rafts tried to save themselves and drowning comrades. Her father stopped kicking long enough to throw back his head and scream at the sky, and at first she thought he’d been grabbed by something, but when he kept kicking she decided he was shouting orders. She couldn’t hear him for the claps of thunder that kept exploding across the pool, rupturing the images momentarily with each clap.
After each clap a burst of lightning flashed, always from the same direction, and momentarily lit up the black seas and boiling clouds. During one such flash she saw Queenston’s Pride, a magnificent new battleship her mother had christened just before it sailed. The lightning illuminated the ship in all its splendor for an instant, during which Bronwyn wondered why it hadn’t taken its sails down in the face of such a storm. Then the bolt connected with the top of the mainmast, turning the mainsail into a sail of fire. In seconds, the ship was diving for the bottom of the sea.
Bronwyn was about ready to dive into the pool to help when three flares in the opposite direction from that which generated the lightning blazed across the pool and the Royal Argonian Airforce, the dragons Grimley, Grizel, and Grippledice, swooped into view, their multicolored scales undulating along their sinuous bodies like banners as they flew into the unequal fray. Abruptly, their flames were extinguished and Bronwyn bit back a cry, but the next flash of lightning showed that the dragons were unharmed and had stopped flaming voluntarily to permit them to scoop their countrymen from the sea without boiling them in the process. The great Grimley’s claws gripped her father around the middle and as the dragon hoisted him aloft, Bronwyn saw what lay below them.
She thought at first the pool was malfunctioning, showing her a double image. The right side of the water showed the scene she had been watching—the destruction of the Argonian army and navy, storm clouds, lightning, men drowned and drowning, a small island around which much of the wreckage had collected and toward which some of the men were making their way. But the left side of the image showed glittering waters only slightly disturbed by the turbulence adjoining them, which seemed to be crashing most of its fury in the opposite direction, a cloudless blue sky cheerfully ornamented with a bright sun shining benignly down upon the Ablemarlonian fleet. Her father struggled to yell something to Grimley, and the dragon activated his flame and swept across the bow of the flagship as near as he dared, which was still out of range. Apparently Grimley didn’t want to risk damaging his royal cargo, even when under orders. But his pass across the ship showed Bronwyn the source of the unusual weather the area seemed to be having.
Among the men who stood on the bow of the flagship was one dressed in tight red britches, wine-colored boots, and
a tunic shaded from gold to rose and decorated with gold lightning flashes and silver storm-clouds. The plume in the small red cap on his white hair was a rich yellow. The total effect would have been ridiculous, for he was far too old and much too ugly to carry off such finery, except for the goose-egg-sized ruby ring he aimed deliberately at the dragon and the King. A bolt of lightning jumped from the ring, narrowly missing the rapidly ascending Grimley, and sizzled into the water over on the stormy side of the pool.
A burly man with a head of dark, curly hair ringed by a gold circlet patted the gaudy wizard on the back. As if he had anything to be proud of, tampering with the weather the Mother deemed it wise to send Her children! What if they melted the glaciers or froze the mountain passes prematurely? No one in Argonia would stand a prayer of a chance! Of all the rotten tricks, using a wizard with weather-controlling power to win a war. Her father would never have done that, even had Argonia had a magician with such power. It was unnatural and dangerous to tamper with something that belonged to everyone as the weather did.
The wizard shot another bolt after Grimley, and by its light she saw Grizel and Grippledice returning for more passengers. Grimley, flaming back in retaliation, veered off toward the island to deposit his burden.
Before she could see if the dragon’s flame hit its mark or not, another missile plunked into the pool, this time from above rather than within it, fragmenting the picture into a thousand circular wavelets and settling in a brown lump at the bottom. Bronwyn looked up and saw twenty of the flying horses gallop airily past and beside her, the djinn swore in what she presumed was his native language and ordered one of the girls to clean the pool.
“Your pardon, illustrious one. Such indignities are the consequences of having airborne livestock.”
Bronwyn wasn’t listening. The image in the pool was a trick, wasn’t it? It was wrong. Her father couldn’t actually be losing—he was the best warrior in the whole world, and the handsomest, bravest, strongest, smartest King. Nobody who stooped so low as to cheat and use weather magic to wage war could beat someone like that, could they? What could the palace be like with that curly-headed king occupying the throne, using her father’s room, putting his shield where the Rowan one belonged? Would he pace at night as her father did, patrolling the passages, his footsteps ringing off the paving stones to echo through the silent passages while he thought through some knotty problem? Bronwyn sometimes joined her father when he did that. She never felt that she had to talk then, and he seldom spoke but she knew he was glad she was there. What if she went home and found home wasn’t there anymore—that her father was killed with all his soldiers and even the dragons. Would the palace be left standing, or Queenston? Surely even the Ablemarlonians wouldn’t be so mean as to kill Mother and the new baby. Aunt Maggie wouldn’t let them. Maybe they’d kill Aunt Maggie too but—nah, they’d never get past Aunt Maggie. Would they? Bronwyn focused again on the horses flying above her and wished fiercely she had one to ride home or into the battle. Before she could pick a single one to wish for, the horses skimming the extreme south end of the courtyard suddenly began rearing and stampeded back the way they came.
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