Sebastian took the goblet and stared doubtfully at its rich, red contents. 'Well, I suppose one mouthful can't hurt,' he said. He lifted the goblet to his lips and took a gulp of the warm liquid. It was incredible, but he really did feel some?thing surge through him – a rush of vitality, a jolt of confidence. He stared at Magda in amazement. T do believe it's working,' he said, astonished.
She nodded. 'Of course it is,' she murmured. 'Trust Magda. Try some more. You will be invincible!'
He did as he was told and immediately felt a warm flush rising to his cheeks. Something in his head flickered and flared. Quite suddenly all his inhibitions seemed to have flown right out of the window. He found that he was pre?pared to say the first things that came into his head – things that were suspiciously like the truth. He pointed at Magda.
'I'm not saying you're ugly, but when they were handing out the looks, you must have been right at the back of the queue! I mean, no offence, but I've seen better-looking plagues! In fact I'd like to commission a painting of you. I'd put it on the mantelpiece to keep the kids away from the fire!'
Magda's face broke into that hideous gap-toothed grin. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'Very good. I think you'll do nicely' She reached out and took his arm gently in hers. 'Come, I think it's time we went down to the performance, don't you?'
'Whatever you say . . . Whew! What's that smell? Either you haven't washed recently or the drains are backing up!' He allowed her to lead him out of the room, but somehow he just couldn't stop talking. 'Listen, I don't know where you got that cloak from, but I think maybe the scarecrow wants it back!'
He kept on babbling as she led him along the corridor and down the marble staircase to the ballroom, where his royal audience was waiting for him.
Cornelius had been riding for what seemed like hours. There was little moonlight and he could not see very far in front of him; but he had done his level best to follow the directions he had been issued with and he was sure that he was on the right track.
The silence was broken only by the chirruping of unseen insects and, somewhere far away to the north, the eerie howl of a luper. Phantom gave a nervous snicker and kicked up her heels. Cornelius reached down a hand to stoke her dappled neck.
'Easy, girl,' he said. 'It's a long way off.' But the recent attack by lupers was on his mind, and when he lifted the hand, he let it come to rest on the pommel of his sword. He kept his gaze on the way ahead.
He rode on in silence for a while and was rewarded by a sudden wash of moonlight breaking through a gap in the clouds. The silvery light picked out something on the far horizon. A lonely wooden barn stood in the midst of the plain. This was the place where he was to deliver his package.
He slowed Phantom to a walk and rode steadily closer, trying to observe everything that he could. The barn was ancient, almost falling down with disrepair. It was odd that there were no equines waiting outside the barn; its doors and windows were tight shut against the night. As he came closer still, Cornelius could perceive a faint glow of lamplight issuing from under the door.
'Well, somebody's at home,' he murmured thoughtfully; and Phantom blew softly through her nostrils as if in reply.
They were close now. Cornelius eased Phantom to a halt, but for the moment he did not dismount. He sat there, listening intently, hoping perhaps to hear voices from within; but there was only the faint whooshing of night breezes, gusting low over the plain and rippling the long grasses.
There was nothing for it but to dismount. Cornelius did so, taking his time. He tethered Phantom to a nearby bush and the little pony stamped a rear hoof in agitation and began to browse half-heartedly on the grass. Cornelius reached up and unstrapped the leather saddlebags. He reached in and removed the package – a small square box wrapped in cloth.
'Wait here,' he told Phantom; and then felt faintly ridiculous. Of course the pony was going to wait here: she was tethered to a bush, wasn't she? He shook his head, tucked the parcel under one arm and walked slowly towards the door of the barn. He stood for a moment longer, listening, but there was no sound from within.
He lifted one hand and rapped on the wood with his knuckles. The sound seemed loud enough to send shock waves across the plains, but the door wasn't secured. Beneath the soft push of his knuckles, it swung smoothly and silently open. Cornelius immediately felt that something was wrong. An ancient, deserted barn like this, and yet somebody had oiled the hinges of this door recently. The smell of the oil was in his nostrils as he stepped inside.
He stood looking uncertainly around, his free hand still clenched around the handle of his sword. He took in the interior of the barn at a glance; saw the ancient bales of hay that rose up on every side of him; the long wooden table in the centre of the room; the figure of a man sitting at the far end of the table, a bronze tankard in front of him. The man was staring expectantly at Cornelius.
'Welcome,' he said. T believe you have something for me.'
Cornelius nodded but made no attempt to move.
'Come then,' said the man impatiently, gesturing with one hand. He was an elderly fellow, grey bearded and balding. 'Bring it to me.'
Cornelius frowned, thinking that the barn held a hundred places of concealment. But he had his orders and must follow them to the letter. He walked across the hay-strewn floor until he was standing by the table. He set the package down in front of the man, who looked up at him and grinned mirthlessly. Seated, he was still a head taller than Cornelius.
'You've ridden a long way,' he observed. It wasn't a question but an observation. He reached out with his big, dirty hands and began to unwrap the package. Cornelius watched with interest, wondering what could have been so important. The man's fingers unpicked the leather thongs that bound the parcel and the covers fell away, revealing that it contained money – a large mound of golden crowns, a tidy sum. Cornelius couldn't help feeling disappointed. He had expected something more interesting than mere money. But the bearded man seemed pleased. His grin deepened and he looked back at Cornelius.
'A small fortune,' he said. 'Would you like to know what the money is for?'
Cornelius shrugged. He wasn't particularly interested.
'It's the price a king will pay,' said the bearded man, 'to rid himself of a troublesome pest.' And with that, he stood up and pulled a sword from his belt. 'Men!' he yelled. 'Take him!'
Cornelius froze for an instant in the act of unsheathing his own sword. He was aware of movement all around him, bales of hay being pushed aside as men emerged from cover; ragged, armed men with the unmistakable look of Brigands. It was an ambush, and Cornelius had walked right into it. He took the opportunity to look right around the interior of the barn. There were fifteen, maybe twenty of them and they were advancing on him with grim determination in their eyes.
He grinned and pulled his sword free of its sheath. 'Gentlemen,' he said. 'I see you've all arrived for your lesson in armed combat. So we'll begin, shall we?'
CHAPTER 19
ON WITH THE SHOW
Sebastian paced up and down behind the curtains, unable to stand still. It wasn't nerves but impatience. He just couldn't wait to get out there and show them a thing or two. Part of him knew that it wasn't natural to feel like this, that it must have been something in the wine the old woman had given him. But he didn't care about that. He was absolutely bursting with confidence, convinced in his own mind that he was the funniest man in history. Here was his opportunity to prove it.
Beyond the curtains he could hear the murmur of the courtiers as they settled themselves into their seats; up in the gallery at the back of the room, minstrels were playing some kind of oddly discordant dance music. Then suddenly the music stopped, to be replaced by a brassy fanfare of trumpets. Sebastian pulled back the curtains a little and peeped out. King Septimus had just stridden into the room with Princess Kerin on his arm. They walked down a central aisle between the ranks of kneeling lords and ladies and took their seats on two opulent thrones at the very front of the room. King Septimu
s waved a hand and everyone else took their seats again. They all sat looking at the stage. Then Malthus walked out onto the raised area where Sebastian was to perform his act. He bowed low before speaking.
'Your majesty . . . your royal highness . . . on this most special of days the palace of Keladon is proud to present for your delectation the number one act from royal courts throughout the world – the Lord of Laughter, the Monarch of Mirth, the King of Comedy! I give you the one and only Sebastian Darke, Prince of Fools!'
Malthus left the stage as the curtains parted and Sebastian nearly sprinted out into the light, the opening line of his care?fully prepared routine ready to spill from his tongue. But the moment he was in position, the words seemed to evaporate like steam; and though he knew that it was wrong, that it was complete folly, he somehow just couldn't stop himself: he started to improvise.
He stared around at the glum-faced audience for a moment, his hands on his hips. 'What?' he asked. 'Did some?body die?'
Silence.
'I know I did. I did a summer season in Brigandia once. I'm not saying the audience was quiet, but I'd have got more reaction from a seance. One guy started eating soup and everybody got up to dance!'
Silence again . . . and then a sudden chuckle of laughter. Princess Kerin. All heads turned to look at her for a moment and then, realizing that a royal precedent had been set, every?body else decided to follow her example. Everyone, that is, except King Septimus. His expression didn't change one little bit. But a polite ripple of amusement passed through the crowd, and Sebastian, encouraged, went on.
'Hey, but you know, it's great to finally play the palace! Mind you, I heard the last guy that played this gig didn't go down too well. He kept his head through the performance but lost it straight afterwards. Actually, the executioner broke it to him in a nice way. He said, "Percival, you need to lose ten pounds of ugly fat – and I'm just the guy who can help!"'
Another laugh, stronger this time.
'So there's poor Percival, kneeling down with his head on the block. A messenger comes running up and says he's got an urgent letter for him. Percival says, "Throw it in the basket, I'll read it later!"'
Again, laughter from Princess Kerin – and after a short pause the other members of the court joined in.
'The king suddenly feels sorry for Percival and decides he'll let him off. So he says, "Arise, Percival." Nothing happens. The king says it again, a little louder this time. "Arise, Percival!" Still he doesn't make a move. "What's wrong with the man?" asks the king. Somebody in the crowd shouts out, "Tell him to get up, your majesty. He's a jester, he doesn't know what a rise is!"'
Louder laughter now, though King Septimus was scowling furiously. Perhaps he didn't much care for a joke that implied that he didn't pay his jesters enough money. If Sebastian had been more clear-headed, he might have taken heed but he was totally out of control now.
'Hey, have we got any merchants in tonight?' A few hands went up. 'I love merchants! But I couldn't eat a whole one! Seriously, did you hear about the merchant who was attacked by Brigands? They beat him up and stole his money. But it's not all good news! He was stranded miles from home and it was getting dark. He saw a farmer standing by his gate and he threw himself on the farmer's mercy, begged him for a place to stay for the night. So the farmer feels sorry for him and tells the merchant he can spend the night with his pigs. The merchant is horrified. "But what about the awful smell?" he asks. "Don't worry," says the farmer, "they'll soon get used to it!"'
There was some genuine laughter from the majority of the audience, but notably none from any of the people who had put their hands up. Undeterred, Sebastian continued.
'What do you call a merchant falling off a cliff? A promising start! How do you save a merchant from drowning? Take your foot off his head! How do you know when you're passing by a merchant's house? Toilet paper hanging on the washing line!'
'That's enough about merchants!' shouted a disgruntled voice in the crowd.
'Oh, can't take the heat, eh? Well, let me see now, who else is there?' He gazed slowly around the crowd and his gaze came to rest on the stern face of the king. 'Of course,' he said. 'His majesty King Septimus.' He paused for a moment, gazing out at the ranks of horrified expressions staring back at him. He knew that it was insanity to make jokes about the king who had just employed him, but he was like some reckless beast stampeding madly towards a cliff. 'You know, I'd like to start by saying that the king is a kind, generous and intelligent ruler. I'd like to say it, but I recently took a vow of honesty!'
Princess Kerin started to laugh but stopped abruptly as she registered what Sebastian had actually said. It was suddenly very quiet in the room and Sebastian's words seemed to echo as he continued.
'You know, his majesty is an incredibly rich man, but you have to ask yourself how he got to be so rich. It's easy – he has this special arrangement where he gets everything he needs from the people around him. The only other creature with a similar arrangement is a vampire. King Septimus has a saying: "What's mine is mine and what's yours is mine." They say that's why he never got married. It's not that he doesn't like the ladies; he just doesn't want anyone close enough to get their hand in his pocket!'
Again, an excruciating silence followed his words.
'Something I said?' he asked, adopting an expression of innocence. 'Oh, come on, I'm only saying what you're all thinking! Of course, having no wife means that Septimus had no heir!' This was met with a gasp from the audience. T said heir,' insisted Sebastian. 'As in son and heir, heir to the throne, heir apparent. I was thinking the other day that most kings have affectionate nicknames. You know, James the Just, Simon the Sincere, Michael the Magnificent – but poor old Septimus, he doesn't have one.' Sebastian hesitated, then clicked his fingers. 'Oh wait, that's not true. I just remembered. He's known in some circles as . . . Septimus the Slaphead.'
In the terrible silence that followed you could have heard a feather fall.
The bearded man and Cornelius stood in the dimly lit barn staring at each other. When Cornelius spoke, his voice was calm.
'First,' he said, 'we'll learn to handle an obvious attack.'
The bearded man lunged forward, his sword raised to strike; but Cornelius parried the blow with his own blade and then performed a quick somersault up onto the table top, a manoeuvre which brought him to the same height as his adversary. As his feet thudded onto the sturdy wood, he intercepted a second blow and ran the bearded man through, all in one fluid motion.
'When in the act of defeating an enemy, always keep an eye out for the unexpected,' said Cornelius.
And even before the bearded man had crumpled to the floor, he sensed a movement behind him and lashed with his sword over his left shoulder. He was rewarded with the thud of a blade against a steel helmet and a bellow of agony, but he didn't turn round to see his opponent fall. Instead he moved to the centre of the table, knowing that the Brigands would have to lean forward to strike at him, putting them off balance. He knew also that he was completely encircled and could not hope to evade all those swords for more than a few moments.
'When a position becomes precarious, always seek to find a better one,' he announced to the room at large. A spear came flying towards him and he swayed sideways and deflected it with his left arm, feeling the wooden shaft glancing off bone. It span aside and lodged itself in the ribs of an advancing Brigand, who cried out in surprise and went down in an ungainly sprawl.
'Sometimes happy accidents will occur!' said Cornelius.
He glanced quickly around at the ragged circle of flashing steel rapidly closing on him and then up to the roof beams above his head. He picked his spot, a point where a horizontal beam met an upright. Then he ran forward and threw himself upwards, using all the power he had learned to summon for the Golmiran death leap. Razor-sharp blades scythed the air inches below his ascending feet, but then he threw his left arm around the upright and was swinging himself up to stand on the horizontal. He looked down at t
he warriors below him and laughed at their astounded faces. Now they could only come at him on his terms, in ones and twos.
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools Page 15
