by Rachel Ford
But Jack focused on their guide, whose nervous step rather worried him; and on the dwarves they passed, all of them staring with unveiled mortification. Beards wagged and eyebrows waggled as they passed. Noses turned – and turned upward.
The rest of his party seemed to note the hostility in the atmosphere, too. Karag murmured, “Not a friendly bunch, these dwarves.”
The goblins cowered and clung to Jack’s leg, murmuring to themselves. “Wicked dwarves. Wicked, wicked.”
“Ugly faces, yes. And cruel eyes.”
“Protect us, Jack will. Protect us.”
“Miserable hall. Wicked hall.”
Now and then, when one of the dwarves would turn a particularly fierce scowl their way, Grimlik would duck behind Jack and hiss. Grem’tha would turn her head away and put a broad hand up, like a horse’s blinker, to block her own vision. “Kills us,” she would cry, “kills us they will. So much hate.”
As for Arath, the ranger kept moving his hand to his empty scabbard, as if he needed the comfort of the hilt of a good blade between his fingers. Then, his fingers would pass through empty air, and he’d frown in a troubled way, and drop his hands to his side – only to repeat the process all over again the next time they passed a bunch of scowling dwarves.
In this way, fearful and cringing, they finally reached their destination. They stood at the end of a long hall, before a pair of great wooden doors barring the way. A figure had been carved into the wood, spanning both doors – a figure with the head of a raptor and the body of a wolf. Its eyes glinted at Jack, not because of any enchantment. Like so much of the palace, gems had been set in the doors. Two massive ruby eyeballs glimmered at the party.
Jack knew they were only stones, cut and polished and secured in the wood. They possessed no intelligence, and posed no threat. Still, the red glint froze him in his tracks. It seemed to freeze his companions, too. They all drew up of one volition a few strides from the door.
Only Varr advanced, walking in halting steps toward the doors. He raised a hand to knock, but let it hover for a few long seconds before he moved. Then, he rapped out three sharp knocks.
A moment later, a voice called, “Yes?”
Varr cast a glance over his shoulder. And there was no mistaking his nervousness this time. “Right. Come on, then.”
They stepped into a massive office – and not just by dwarven proportions. Even Karag looked small here. The ceiling reached several times his height, and the dwarven furniture – though short – was wide enough to accommodate him. A desk was situated at one end of the room, and a dark-haired dwarf sat behind it, looking absurdly, almost cartoonishly, small in the massive room. He wore a smart crimson tunic, and a fierce expression.
Jack suddenly understood Varr’s hesitance. Still, the captain of the guard bowed low. “Vizier Moinn, I present –”
But he didn’t get to finish the thought. The dark-haired dwarf – Vizier Moinn, apparently – got to his feet with an indignant snort, demanding, “What in Ivaldi’s name are goblins doing in my office?”
It took Varr a good two minutes to finally answer, because his boss didn’t shut up long enough for him to spit it out before that. Moinn reminded him that he was the captain of the guard – “for now” – and that, as such, goblins were “some of the vermin you’re supposed to be guarding against. Not inviting into the king’s home.”
Varr soldiered through a dozen, “Yessir, but –” and, “Understood, sir, but –” and, “Of course, sir, only –” attempts.
Moinn shot him down each time until, red-faced with anger, he finally paused for breath. Seizing the moment, Varr rushed out, “This man has word of Prince Migli.”
Moinn blinked. Then, he opened his mouth, and closed it again. His brows drew tighter together, and he scrutinized Jack with a fierce expression. “This man?”
“Yessir.”
Moinn nodded. “I suppose he’s dead, then?”
Jack stared mutely for half a second. The question seemed to have been directed at him, though, so he cleared his throat and spoke. “Dead? Uh, no sir.” Then, he reflected on the dwarven prince’s current situation – frozen in stone. “I mean, kind of.”
Moinn scoffed. “Of course. Still, we all knew it would end like this.” He shook his head and took up his seat again. Then he drew out a sheet of paper and a quill and dipped the tip in an inkpot. “Alright, you’d better give me the details. His father will want to know. And I suppose, since you’re here, the circumstances must have been – unfortunate. You’ll be wanting some kind of reward to keep them quiet, I imagine?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It took Jack two minutes of his own to make Moinn understand that he wasn’t here to blackmail them, and that Migli hadn’t died in disgrace – an effort he promptly torpedoed when he got into the details of what actually had happened, and mentioned the bit about prison.
Moinn loosed a heavenward groan. “In prison. Ivaldi’s beard. I’d be blind and dumb if I didn’t see it coming, but still: one clings to hope.”
After a lengthy explanation about the misunderstanding leading to their confinement – none of which the vizier believed, if his upraised eyebrows and occasional snorts were anything to go by – Jack at least got to bring the conversation back to his reason for being there. “So, I’m not here for a reward. I’m here because I need Delling’s help to break the curse.”
Moinn glanced up from the page, and the notes he’d been scribbling there. “Break the curse?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean…he’s not gone for good?”
Jack shook his head. “No, none of them are. We can bring them all back.”
“Oh,” Moinn said, with such a marked lack of enthusiasm that Jack couldn’t ignore it.
“You…do want to bring him back, right?”
The vizier’s lips curled in a thin, forced looking smile. “Of course. Migli is a prince of the crown. I’m sure we all want nothing more.”
Varr nodded so briskly that his beard bobbed. “Exactly.”
Moinn turned a contemptuous glance his way, but then returned to Jack. “You’re sure this isn’t permanent? You’re sure we can bring him back?”
That’s what his objective indicated, so he nodded. “Very sure.”
“Wonderful,” the other man said in tones that belied the word. He sat in silence for a long moment, staring at his notes. Then, he sighed. “Well, I suppose I should go and bring this to the king’s attention.”
“And the queen’s,” Jack put in. The other man’s attitude didn’t sit well with him. He seemed almost disappointed by the idea that Migli might return to life. There wasn’t much he could do about that. But at the very least, he could make sure Migli’s mom knew what was going on with her son. Anyway, moms would move heaven and earth for their kids. Not his own, maybe, but most moms. So having a hysterical queen worried about her baby might just work to Jack’s advantage. “I’m sure she’ll want to know.”
Moinn stared blankly at him. “Why would the queen care?”
Jack blinked at the question. “Because…he’s her son?”
Moinn laughed – actually laughed – at him. “Migli’s mother isn’t the queen. Not anymore. You’re living in the past, man: that was five queens ago.”
Jack’s jaw sagged a little, and images of King Delling as a kind of Henry VII started playing through his head. “Five…queens ago?”
Moinn nodded briskly.
“She’s – well, she’s not dead, is she?”
“Who?”
“Migli’s mother.”
Moinn frowned at him. “Why in Ivaldi’s name would she be dead?” Jack started to explain that the other man’s phrasing had sounded a little ominous, but he was interrupted before he could get to the mention of Henry VII – probably, he realized, for the better. “Of course she’s not dead. She’s in the prime of her life, remarried and living in the Mirror Lake palace.”
“Oh. Well…that’s good.”
“I should hope so: it cost a million gold sovereigns to build.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that, so he tried to bring Moinn back on topic. “Still: I’m sure she’d want to know. Right?”
“Probably. But that’s the king’s call, not mine.” The vizier stood again. “Wait here, gentlemen and…vermin. I’ll return shortly.” Then he turned to the door and took his leave.
Grimlik hissed as the great doors closed. “Wicked fellow. Rude.”
“Very rude,” his sister agreed.
“Cut his tongue out, then he be polite.”
“No cutting of tongues, or anything else. You’re on good behavior,” Jack reminded them.
Grimlik hissed again but said no more.
Arath, meanwhile, scratched his chin. “Five? Odin’s beard. The man’s a glutton for punishment.” He laughed. “Can you imagine putting up with five wives?”
Varr had been adjusting and readjusting his tunic. Now, he glanced up. “Oh, you misunderstood the vizier. The king hasn’t been married five times.”
“But…I thought he said Migli’s mother was ‘five queens ago’?” Jack asked.
The captain of the guard nodded. “Aye, exactly: five queens ago. But she was queen number four.”
Arath took a staggering step backward. “Odin almighty. Eight wives?”
“Nine,” Jack corrected.
“Eight,” the ranger insisted, a supercilious tone in his voice. “Five, add four: eight.”
Karag barked out a laugh. “No wonder you have so many ‘problems’ settling your tab. You can’t even count.”
Jack raised his fingers, counting off five and then four more. “Nine.”
Arath scowled at the giant first, and then Jack. He raised his own fingers, and counted once, and then again. When he got nine both times, his scowl deepened. He plopped down on one of the pieces of furniture, saying no more.
Varr watched the whole spectacle, scratched the back of his head, and said, “And it’ll probably be ten before too long.”
“Things not going well on the marital front?” Karag asked, making no effort to hide the amusement in his tone. “His majesty’s eye is wandering again?”
Varr shook his head, though. “I reckon it’s the queen who has had enough. Queen Helga: she’s been touring the western settlements a lot lately.
“But it’s more than that. Taxes just went up.”
“Taxes?” Jack asked, frowning. He failed to see the connection between divorce and taxes.
“Aye, to fund the royal divorce fund. You can always tell there’s a divorce on the horizon when that happens. Or a marriage. Sometimes he likes to plan ahead. And I guess there’s something to be said for preparedness, right? My grandpappy used to say –”
Jack listened to Varr’s rambling until he took his full meaning. Then, he interrupted, “Wait a minute, you mean your king has a taxpayer funded divorce account?”
“Of course. Palaces aren’t cheap, and each former queen has to have her own.”
Jack shook his head, thinking about nine queens, and nine palaces – and nine rounds of taxes levied against the people of Ivaldi’s Hall, all because their king had a wandering eye. He thought of the poverty he’d passed on the way through the city, the weariness and need. “I don’t suppose you people have heard of the guillotine here?”
Varr stared blankly at him, and Jack laughed it off with a, “Never mind.”
Then the other man went on talking, seemingly about whatever popped into his head. He heard about Princess Anna’s third marriage, and Prince Hagreth’s fifth divorce. He heard the rumors that the heir apparent was about to be hitched for a fourth time, and that his sister would attach herself to a fourth husband shortly thereafter. “That’s what the talk of the court is, anyway.” He heard about the royal cousin Thrasir’s shortest marriage – lasting only one day – and his longest – lasting a full year and a half.
Migli’s womanizing ways started to make a lot more sense to Jack as he half-listened. It seemed to run in the family.
Varr had moved on from marriages and divorces to deaths, following some segue that made sense only in his own mind, when the door opened again. The captain of the guard fell silent as Moinn stepped in – accompanied by Migli.
Jack did a doubletake. Only then did he realize it wasn’t Migli at all, but a man who looked very like him. Crow’s feet lined the corner of his eyes, and gray strands mixed with the flame red of his hair and beard. Otherwise, though, they might have been identical twins.
He strode in with a quick, confident step. His expression morphed from curiosity to disgust and back again as he surveyed the party. “Humans and goblins? And someone from the Obsidian Isles, too?” He glanced at the vizier. “I know it’s Migli we’re talking about, but this is too much, Moinn.”
The other man spread his hands. “And yet, I fear they speak the truth, my lord.”
Delling frowned, and deep chasms formed on his brow. “You there: what is your name?”
The game gave him a series of possible responses, ranging from peak brown-nosing to downright offensive. Jack picked a nice, middling one. “I am Jack, an adventurer and hero whose business it is to stop Iaxiabor, and the great darkness.”
“And you knew my son, Migli?”
“I did, sir.”
“How?”
“He joined my quest.”
“To stop Iaxiabor?”
“That’s right.”
Delling laughed. “You see, Moinn? They’re pretenders. Migli’s probably alive and well. He might have even put them up to this.” He turned suspicious eyes Jack’s way. “Did he? Is he out of money? Is that what this is about? Some scheme, some scam to extort me, to squeeze the royal purse?”
Jack was glad the game made him choose a canned response at this juncture, because he would have had no idea how to reply otherwise.
Indeed, Delling: your son is in prison, and he requires 10,000 gold to be released. So far, he has used a false name. And if you pay the fine, he will continue to do so. If not, he will tell anyone who will listen that Migli, son of Delling, prince of the dwarven house, languishes in prison like a common criminal.
I’m sensing there’s some background I’m missing out on. You want to fill me in, your highness?
And,
I assure you, King Delling, I am speaking the truth.
Jack hesitated. There was bad blood between Migli and his father; that much was obvious. Exploiting it for ten thousand gold would be an absolutely terrible, underhanded thing to do. But, brilliant. Ten thousand gold was a hell of a lot of gold, after all.
“Well?” Delling prompted.
Jack gritted his teeth and chose the third option.
The king harrumphed. “I don’t believe it. You’re telling me Migli is – what? Trying to save the world?”
“Yes.”
“Bollocks. Migli wouldn’t know duty if it jumped up and bit him on his overfed hindquarters.”
Karag caught Jack’s eye, a confused expression on his face. He nodded. He understood exactly where the giant was coming from. Still, he had to try. “Look, your majesty, I don’t know what your beef with Migli is –”
“My beef with Migli?” the king repeated in a veritable roar. “Ha! So that’s what he told you, is it? My beef with Migli, indeed. As if he didn’t betray his own family, to go cavorting with humans and elves and…” He gestured at Grimlik and Grem’tha. The pair cowered behind Jack, hissing. “And worse things. As if he didn’t leave the hall of his ancestors to travel among lesser races. As if he didn’t spit in the eye of dwarves everywhere, to run off and be a bard – to sing for his supper, instead of dig it out of the earth.
“But my beef with Migli? As if he was anything but a disgrace of a son to me. As if I was ever anything but the best of fathers to him.”
Again, Jack and Karag exchanged glances. “Right. I can tell you were a great dad.”
“Better than that beardless nit deserved, I can tell you that much.�
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“But, whatever happened between you, whoever’s fault it may be –”
“May be?” Delling roared.
“Is. Whoever’s fault it is –”
“Migli’s. That’s whose fault it is.”
“Right. Whatever Migli did, right now, he needs your help.”
Delling snorted, and Moinn tugged thoughtfully on his beard. “If he needed my help, human, he shouldn’t have left Ivaldi’s Hall in the first place.”
Jack grimaced but put on his most conciliatory tone. “Of course. I understand that. I just mean, right now your son is a statue.”
“He knew the risks when he left home.”
This, finally, was too much for him, and he snapped, “Really? Because I don’t think anyone takes into account the odds of being turned into stone by an ancient demon called back from the spirit realm.”
Delling raised an eyebrow at him, and Moinn said, “Need I remind you that you’re addressing the king, human?”
Jack raised his palms placatingly. “Of course. I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m just saying, right now your son – the entire world – needs you.”
The king laughed contemptuously. “The world is no concern of mine.”
“Yeah, well, apparently neither is your son.”
Delling took a step nearer Jack and growled. “Are you impugning my parental record? Are you implying I don’t care about my son?”
He supposed this was meant to intimidate him. And maybe it should have. Though he stood only about half as tall, Delling was several times wider than Jack – and a king, with an entire army at his command. But right now, Jack felt too pissed off to care. He’d kissed enough ass today. He’d played nice, and that had got him nowhere fast. “Impugning? No, of course not my lord. I’m not implying anything.” Delling’s jaw started to relax. “I’m saying you’re the absolute worst parent I’ve ever met. And believe me, I know a thing or two about lousy parents.”
