1
Before attempting to penetrate the Evil Overlord’s Invincible Fortress, the practical hero will seriously examine the option of maintaining a safe distance and picking him off the ramparts with a long-range weapon.
Handbook of Practical Heroics
by Robert Taylor
Dark gray clouds scudded against the moon. It was totally overcast when Thunk started out, but the sky partially cleared, and when the bright moon came out, it illuminated the Fortress of Doom and striped it with black-and-gray shadows. Thunk stayed motionless in one such shadow, thrown by a chimney, with his feet braced against the steep slope of the slate roof. Voices wafted from below, from the heavily guarded doorways. More guards, armed and armored, could be seen pacing across the gates, leaning out the windows, or standing at the parapets. Thunk the Barbarian waited. To pass the time he pulled an indiarubber ball from his pouch and practiced grip-strengthening exercises. He flexed the muscles in his forearms and wondered if it was time for a new tattoo.
When the moon darkened once again he allowed himself a derisive smile. For a man of his skill and experience, the seemingly impregnable fortress had posed little challenge. Soldiers walked the streets of the nearby village, but they had taken little notice of him. He did not find anything odd in this, despite the fact that a tall man with massive shoulders, dressed in barbarian leather and furs, and carrying a huge sword engraved with cryptic runes, usually attracts at least a second glance. The trail up to the Fortress was also guarded of course, but he had bypassed that, using his expert climbing ability to go directly up the cliff. He wasn’t surprised that the cliff edge was unguarded. No doubt they considered the sheer face unscalable. There remained the smooth stone walls of the Fortress itself, and a skillfully thrown rope had solved that problem. Then from atop the wall, a convenient cast-iron drainpipe provided access to the roof. An easy job. Not much of a challenge to a man like Thunk.
Now he removed an iron grating that provided access to a ventilation shaft. The grate wasn’t even bolted down, but just slid into a groove in the shaft housing. It was amazing how often the fools who built these castles forgot to secure the ventilation shafts. Anyone would think they’d know better by now.
Once inside he replaced the grating and sat back, listening. All was silent on the roof. Reassured, he slid back the cover of his dark lantern. The shaft, wide enough for even the broad-shouldered barbarian, dropped away into darkness.
Something, however, obstructed his view. He lowered the lantern into the hole. A faint thin odor of burning lamp oil filled the shaft. Four broad steel bars stretched across the opening. But not all the way across, and at one end they were set into a rotating cylinder. It looked for all the world like a turnstile.
Thunk leaned forward for a closer look. It was a turnstile. Neat letters had been painted above a narrow slot. “Ventilation Shaft Entrance: 2p.” Puzzled, Thunk reached into his pouch and extracted tuppence. He dropped the coin into the slot, then drew his sword. Carefully, he touched the blade to the bars. The cylinder rotated. The bars swung down against the wall of the shaft. He shrugged, replaced his sword in its scabbard, and slipped through the open gate.
He left the lantern at the turnstile, braced his feet against one side of the shaft and his back against the other, and carefully and quietly worked his way down. His sword dangled from his belt, the point swinging gently. It was an easy descent, for he’d had plenty of practice at this sort of thing. Thunk had lost count of the number of impregnable fortresses he had penetrated by climbing through a ventilation shaft. True, Thunk would also be the first to admit that counting was not one of his strong points, but it was still a lot of shafts.
The opening above him grew smaller, the light from the lantern grew fainter, but presently Thunk could make out a dim glow beneath him. He had dropped nearly sixty feet and was well into the interior of the castle. A few feet later he reached the bottom of the shaft, which ran horizontally in four directions. The glow came from a square of glass set into the side of the shaft. Behind it was a candle. Below the glass was a small metal plaque. Thunk lay down in the shaft and put his nose nearly against it, barely able to make out the etching. It showed a vertical shaft descending against a black background and branching out into four horizontal shafts. At the intersection was a small dot, with an arrow pointing to it. The arrow was labeled “You Are Here.”
Thunk had plenty in the way of physical courage and a good deal of native cunning, but not much of a sense of humor. He grunted and unsheathed his sword, keeping it pointed in front of him. It was obvious now that he had descended into a trap. A trap set by someone who did have a sense of humor. Not a clever sense of humor, mind you, but some wise guy had made the attempt. Thunk looked at the entrances to the four shafts and debated which one to take. All of them, he suspected, would turn out badly. He considered climbing back up the shaft and forcing his way through the turnstile. Then he looked at the glass plate and the lamp.
Someone had to light the candle. Someone had to replace it when it burned down. There must be a door in back of it, one that led into the castle. He peered through the glass. Yes, in the back of the alcove he could see the edges of an access panel. The Barbarian Swordsman hesitated not a moment before reversing his sword and smashing the hilt into the glass plate.
Immediately the shaft began to fill with gas.
Thunk’s instinctive reaction was to draw a deep breath and hold it. But it was already too late to avoid getting a lungful of gas. His nostril filled with a faint, opium-like scent, his ears filled with the hissing of a gas valve. And just before he lost consciousness he heard something else. It was far away and very faint, barely audible under the gas noise. But he was sure he heard the sound of evil laughter.
* * *
There were fairy-tale kingdoms, twenty of them, clustered on the edge of an ancient and primitive land, a land of magic and mystery, where crystal waterfalls dropped from icy peaks and wild beasts skulked in hidden glens, where castles guarded the cities and wishing wells dotted the countryside. It was peopled by lords and ladies and knights and scholars, by wizards and witches and bandits and intrepid travelers, who were always told that yes, it really was safe to drink the water in any of the Twenty Kingdoms but to be on the safe side you might want to boil it first, or just stick to beer and wine. Not all of the twenty were actually ruled by kings. Some were ruled by queens and a few were more or less constitutional monarchies. But all of them were definitely fairy-tale kingdoms.
Now fairy tale is a rather broad definition. Here, it does not refer to the children’s storybook type of fairy tale, populated by cutesy talking neutered animals. In the Twenty Kingdoms the cartographers filled the blank spaces on their maps with the warning, “Here Be Dragons.” The cartographers weren’t kidding around. And the dragons didn’t talk either.
But neither were they the gruesome and grim sort of fairy-tale lands, describing the kind of place where wicked stepmothers not only killed their children, but boiled them into soup and served it up at royal banquets. Oh sure, there were evil villains and awful crimes, but they weren’t the norm.
It is more the romantic type of fairy tale that is being referred to here, for the Twenty Kingdoms were lands of gallant knights and elegant ladies. Lands where polite discourse and courtly manners were interspersed with fiery speeches and deadly duels. Lands of dramatic gestures and passionate romances. Real romance, that is. Heartfelt love. Tender emotion. Devoted adoration. Caring. Sensitivity. Not that hot, sexy, bodice-ripping sort of romance that was so popular in the more decadent kingdoms. There was none of that. No.
Well, okay, there was some bodice ripping. But really, most of it was consensual.
And years ago, in one of these fairy-tale kingdoms, a man named Eric Timberline ascended the throne of Rassendas. He was a fair and just ruler. He maintained a powerful army, but thanks to clever diplomacy and alliances he managed to avoid war. He kept the roads in good repair. He improved the schools. He discriminated against all ethnic groups equally. Eric was a good king, but he was not called King Eric the Good. There already was an Eric the Good of Calvados, so King Eric of Rassendas became known as Not-Eric-the-Good-the-Other-One.
Needless to say, he didn’t care much for this nickname. It seemed to imply that if he was not Eric the Good, then he was Eric the Bad. He could see it coming. All it would take would be one lazy historian, and he would be down in the books forever with an unwanted nickname. He was determined to stop it. For a while he involved himself in the Rassendas court system, hoping to earn the name of Eric the Just. But he didn’t have the devious mind necessary to succeed at law. A number of churches hinted that, for an appropriately large donation, they could arrange for him to become Eric the Pious. This was entirely too sleazy for him. His worst idea was to seduce a large number of women, in the hope of getting a name like Eric the Sexy. His advisors warned him that this plan had a high potential for backfiring. Eric didn’t listen, but he fell in love with the next woman that hopped into bed with him, married her, and forgot the seduction scheme. Eric the Philanderer was not the reputation he was looking for.
It was the merest chance that solved his problem. One bright sunny day, while riding through the city, he looked in a shop window and saw a pair of spectacles with smoked glass lenses. King Eric dismounted and handed the reins to an assistant. He went into the shop. The spectacles, he was informed, were designed for explorers who had to cross sun-beaten deserts or glaring ice fields. King Eric bought a pair. He tried them on. He liked the way they made him look. He liked them so much, in fact, that he took to wearing them all the time, even at night. And a few months later he discovered, to his delight, that he was now being referred to Eric the Totally Cool.
Prince Kevin of Rassendas was a long way from home, and he was thinking of his own reputation. It is when you are away from home, surrounded by strangers who know little of your past achievements, that your reputation becomes important. If his father was Eric the Cool, and Kevin was simply Prince Kevin, did that mean Kevin was not cool? It is disconcerting for a young man to think that his father is cooler than he is. That’s not what fathers are for.
“Kevin the Good,” he murmured to himself. “That would be bad. Kevin the Bad. That would be good. Kevin the Nice would be the worst.”
“Beg pardon, sire?” said his valet.
“The hot babes don’t go for nice guys,” explained Kevin. “They think they’re boring. Girls like bad boys. They think bad guys are exciting.”
“Yes, sire.”
The Prince of Rassendas carefully adjusted his cuffs, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off the lace. His expression, when he looked at himself in the mirror, was perhaps a trifle smug. Light brown hair flowed over the carefully starched pleats of his collar and tumbled about his shoulders. His strong hands adjusted the satin waistcoat over his hard, flat stomach. The dark cloth of his trousers draped smoothly down long, straight legs to meet the highly polished black calfskin of his boots, breaking just above the silver ornamental spurs. Prince Kevin cut a dashing figure, and he knew it. With great precision, he twisted a lock of hair around his finger and let it fall over his forehead. In doing so, he saw, behind his own reflection, his valet approaching with a piece of folded silk.
“Will you be wanting your diplomatic sash, Your Highness?”
Kevin considered it. “I think not, Winslow. Makes the whole thing seem a bit too mercenary, don’t you know?”
“It will be a marriage of convenience, sire.”
“Yes, but no sense rubbing the fact in the girl’s face. May as well maintain a pretense of romance, however thin it may be.” He saw a cloud pass over his valet’s face and turned away from the glass. “You disagree?”
Winslow did his best to sound neutral, but his look of fatherly concern was plain to see. He hesitated before speaking, his gray eyebrows drawing together. “Sire, I realize your father wants the match very much, but I have a concern, arising from my longtime—erm—service.”
“Friendship, would you say?”
Winslow permitted himself a small smile. “Yes, sire. That is, I cannot feel honest enthusiasm at the betrothal of yourself and Princess Rebecca. From all accounts she is quite unsuitable in temperament.”
“A cold-hearted bitch, I believe is the term.”
“Um. Yes, sire. Even her own people call her the Ice Princess.”
“Well, maybe she’ll warm up to me.” Kevin turned back to the mirror and gave his cuffs one final tug. “Come, Winslow. We mustn’t keep the court waiting.”
“Certainly, sire.” Winslow put the scarlet sash away. “Will you be wearing your court sword this evening?”
The Prince reflected on this. “Logan is quite the martial hero, isn’t he, Winslow?”
“Yes, sire. I expect him to be in dress uniform, with full miniatures.”
“And he’ll have a sword, of course. No, no sword for me. We mustn’t try to outshine him at his own game. Nothing that smacks of the military. Just a cane, I think.”
Winslow brought him an ebony walking stick, topped with a gold knob, and helped him fasten his cape around his shoulders. The valet himself was dressed in dark plain blue trousers and a jacket with the Rassendas crest on the pocket, the standard uniform of the Rassendas court. The two men set off down the long corridors of the Castle Deserae. They had been guests here for several weeks and had started to become familiar with its many rooms and multiple staircases. It was to be a busy night, and the broad hallways were bustling with visitors and servants. The Prince greeted as many people as he could by name, including the servants, and acknowledged the rest with easy smiles. He was pleased to notice how the castle’s staff treated Winslow with respect.
“A good sign, I think,” he told him in a low voice. Those in service always know what’s up before the gentry, don’t you think?”
The older man nodded. “Very true, sire. The fact that the other valets are showing deference to me indicates we are certainly still in the running.”
“How many are here?”
“There are four other potential suitors, Your Highness, counting Lord Logan.”
“Hayward didn’t show?”
“His lordship was taken ill, Sire.”
“Not seriously, I hope. I’ll send a note tomorrow. What about Monty?”
“The rumor is that Prince Montcrief is about to announce his own engagement.”
“Lady Allyson?”
“So they say.”
“Good for him. About time, I should think. Those two have been making puppy eyes at each other for half a year now. All right, so that leaves me, Logan, Raymond, Harkness, and Bigelow.
“Yes, sire. But the word below stairs is that you and Logan are the only serious contenders. The nobility of Deserae still favors Lord Logan but popular opinion seems to be swinging your way.”
“Those old guys always back the military. Well, keep your ears open, Winslow.” They descended another broad staircase, standing aside to let two women in wide gowns pass. Kevin picked up the thread of conversation again. “Truth to tell, Winslow, this isn’t just politics. I personally would like to have this match with the Princess.”
“Why is that, sire?”
“Well for one thing, she’s really beautiful”
“Every princess in the Twenty Kingdoms is beautiful, Your Highness. It is one of the unexplained mysteries of our land. I have never seen an unattractive princess.”
“Okay, but she’s also about my age. I mean, look what happened to Prince Frederick. The family refused to let him marry until he was thirty, and then he was betrothed to a six-year-old girl.”
“That was ten years ago, sire. Now he is the most envied middle-aged man in his kingdom.”
The two men turned into a wider and even more crowded hallway. They followed the current of people to their destination but paused at the entrance to the grand ballroom.
A twenty-piece orchestra was playing at full volume, but the conversational hubbub still rose above the music. A thousand candles, each flame reflected a hundred times more from gleaming crystal chandeliers, filled the massive ballroom with a bright golden glow. Within the crowd a constant glitter of reflection dazzled the eye, as necklaces of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds flashed from the ladies’ necks. From the men’s shoulders swung capes of silk, velvet, and fur. All of Deserae’s nobility, and the cream of its merchant population, flowed around the room in a large, slow circuit, shaking hands, chatting, making introductions, forming into knots and groups and cliques, then breaking up again to join the main flow, like a stream flowing into a circular pond. Servants bearing silver trays of canapés and full wineglasses smoothly entered the whirlpool, and other servants with empty trays exited just as smoothly. And in the center of the flow were the four other men who had traveled from their respective countries to compete for the hand of Princess Rebecca.
“Bigelow, Raymond, Harkness, and there is Lord Logan,” said Kevin, looking over the crowd. “That’s him with Lord Hepplewhit and Baron Ashbury. He brought along some of his Black Guards. Bigelow left his entourage behind, I see. Did our other diplomats reply to my message, Winslow?”
“Yes, sire. You received a note from their excellencies Berry and Wainright this morning.”
“And what did it say?”
“It said that Deserae is proud of its orchards but produces little wine.”
“Good. What else?”
“Principal employment lies in sheep and lumber. Not surprisingly, most of the manufacturing is in wool cloth and carved wood. They also weave flax. And there’s some tin mining.”
“Sheep,” said Kevin reflectively. “Hmmm. Okay, I may need you. Wait for me here.”
He gave his invitation to the doorman, who announced him, not that anyone was listening, or could hear above the music and the chatter. It took the better part of an hour for Prince Kevin to reach the center of the room, for every step meant another round of greetings, bows, handshakes, and exchanges of pleasantries. The Prince never wavered from his course, although to the other guests it appeared that he had no direction at all, but merely by chance the press of the crowd had nudged him into the royal center. Indeed, he seemed almost surprised when he turned around and found himself facing Prince Bigelow.
“Samuel,” he said, bowing slightly. “Good to see you again. You’re looking well.”
“As yourself, Kevin.” Bigelow did not bow or smile. He was a good-looking young man, a little heavyset but powerful, normally quite friendly and personable. Three weeks ago he had been considered a solid choice. Now he was tired of the whole game and ready to go home. The Lords of Deserae had narrowed the field to two. Bigelow was sufficiently well informed to know he was out of the running.
“Raymond, Harkness,” said the Prince, shaking hands with each of them. Raymond was a thin, weedy sort, with a scraggly beard, who always seemed to be daydreaming. He had never been a serious contender and was probably just there for diplomatic reasons. He had a glass of wine in each hand and a pipe in his mouth. Prince Harkness had wide blue eyes and long golden hair, and every adolescent girl in the kingdom thought he was absolutely adorable. But he was also three years younger than Kevin and two years younger than the Princess. Kevin knew the Princess objected to marrying a younger man.
Which left Logan of Angostura, son of the Lord High Chancellor and a general in the Angosturan army. He was tall, even taller than Kevin, who was by no means short. Square jawed, muscular, with broad shoulders, and the epaulets on his jacket made them seem even broader. He normally traveled in the company of highly trained commandos called the Black Guards. Black Jack Logan, his men called him. It was easy to see why. He had black eyes and black hair, cut short to keep the curls under control, and thick and precisely trimmed black beard. Brighter-than-regulation gold braid covered the sleeves of his black wool uniform, and a double row of medals stretched across his left breast. He wore a collarless shirt with a black silk cravat knotted around his neck, in the military style, and he wore a military sword. His greeting to Kevin was curt, and the dislike showed plainly in his face. Logan had made it clear from the start that he wanted this marriage, and he regarded each competing suitor the way a soldier regards the enemy, as an obstacle to be destroyed or circumvented by the most expedient means. Prince Kevin, for his part, gave no indication that he was in a competition at all. He gave the soldier a cheery smile and respectful bow.
“As I was saying, the proper disposition of troops along the border is paramount in the defense of a country like Deserae.” Logan had been discoursing on military preparedness. He picked up the thread of conversation again. “You don’t want to station all your forces on the outposts. Especially in mountainous terrain like yours. You want to keep troops where they can be rapidly shifted to cover breakthroughs. If you stop them in the passes, they’ll only pull back and try again. To destroy an enemy’s army, you have to lure it onto the plains, where you can maneuver.”
Bigelow looked bored. Harkness had his eyes on a girl in a low-cut gown. But two members of Deserae’s ruling council were following Logan’s word’s carefully. Baron Ashbury was white-haired, elderly, and stout, and Lord Hepplewhit was white-haired, elderly, and thin. “Lord Logan has been telling us of some of his victories,” Ashbury explained to Kevin.
“Of which he has many,” Kevin said. “Your reputation has spread even to my own country, Lord Logan.” Logan barely acknowledged his words.
“I was thinking that his is the sort of leadership we need in Deserae,” said Hepplewhit to Kevin. “Consider our situation. Bordering on the frontier, we get all sorts of nasties coming over the mountains. And our location makes us a temptation for other countries with an eye to expand.”
It was true. Deserae had a strategic location between two major rivers, and the easiest pass through the northern mountains ended at its border. “Rassendas has many experienced generals. My father, of course, is eager to form a treaty of mutual defense with Deserae. Under the right circumstances.” Kevin added this last bit offhandedly, not making a point of what those conditions were. Logan glared at him anyway.
“Wine, yes thank you,” said Bigelow. He was talking to a white-jacketed steward, who proffered him a tray. He swirled the glass of deep purple liquid and tasted it. “Good wine, this.”
“Imported from Rassendas,” said Hepplewhit, as each of the other men took a glass. “You don’t care for it, Lord Logan?”
“It is adequate for cooking, perhaps.” Logan put his glass, barely tasted, back on the tray. “I’m afraid that the wines of Rassendas cannot compare to the full-bodied wines of Angostura. Like many of the products of Rassendas, they tend to be immature and weak.”
There was certainly insult in this. The group fell silent, a small pocket of quiet in the surrounding conversational hubbub, waiting to hear how Kevin would respond. Bigelow especially let his eyes flick to Kevin’s waist, noted that the Prince was not wearing a sword, and gave a speculative glance at the heavy knob of his walking stick. Logan’s Black Guards leaned forward. But Kevin answered cheerfully enough. “Can’t argue with you there. I don’t know much about wine—don’t really care for it myself.”
“You prefer beer?” said Bigelow.
“Beer’s all right, Sam. I really prefer cider, when I can get it.”
“Cider? Really?” Ashbury pushed forward. “Prince Kevin, you must try some of our ciders.” He grabbed Kevin by the arm and led him across the room. “You’re a cider man, eh? I myself have extensive orchards on my estate. I supply many of the breweries in Deserae. In all modesty, I must say that my ciders are—well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.”
“You have orchards? Really?” Part of the crowd, seeing the Prince leave, followed them.
“Oh yes. Apples, cherries, plums, pears—now here.” Ashbury let him out a side door, into an antechamber where a number of barrels were stacked. Stewards were filling glasses and setting them on trays. The Baron ran his free hand over the barrels. “Ah, here we go. This is one of mine. We keep the best for ourselves and ship the rest. And the King, of course. We supply the King with our best and sell the rest. Now, wait until you taste it. Waiter! A clean glass for the Prince, if you please.”
“Oh, not a glass,” said Kevin. “I always think cider tastes best when drunk from an honest wooden mug.”
There was a murmur of assent from the gathered men. “Quite right,” said a tall man, moving up from the back. He had close-cropped gray hair and waved a wooden stein above his head.
“Lord Tripple,” said Kevin.
“A mug of cider, that’s what the Prince needs. Grindsey, where’s that mug I brought—ah, here we go. Here you are, Timberline. Put your lips to this.”
He shoved a wrapped object into Kevin’s hands. Kevin unwound the cloth cover and examined it carefully. It was a wooden tankard, carved from oak in deep relief, then inlaid with cherry, walnut, rosewood, and curly maple. The elaborate hunting scene pictured on the side held at least two dozen figures, so delicately fashioned that a distinct expression clearly showed on each tiny face. “This is beautiful. Really a work of art.”
“Tut,” said Tripple. “A modest enough little gift, I assure you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a man who appreciates fine wood. I can’t tolerate metal tankards—they set my teeth on edge. Now my wood-carvers—they did the doors of our chapel, you must stop by and see it—did this all out of local woods. I keep a wide selection of hardwoods growing on my land. Cut one down, plant two more, that’s the key to careful forest management.”
“Let me put some cider in that for you,” said the Baron, passing it to a waiter.
“Excuse me, my lords,” said a steward. They all looked at him. “I beg pardon for interrupting, my ords, but His Majesty the King was most insistent that our guests be presented.”
“Of course,” said Lord Tripple. He motioned for Kevin to follow the steward, then took up a pace behind him. Baron Ashbury waited until Kevin’s tankard was full, then fell in step with Lord Tripple. Back in the Grand Ballroom, Kevin saw Raymond waiting before a pair of large French doors that fronted a small balcony. Bigelow appeared out of the crowd dragging a reluctant Harkness, who had a string of young women trailing him like a wake. The three men gazed outside with a sense of weary duty. Kevin came up beside Lord Hepplewhit, giving him an inquiring look. Hepplewhit stepped to one side, allowing Kevin to see out a neighboring window. Sixteen feet below were the castle’s front gardens. Quite a crowd had gathered there. Kevin estimated it was over a thousand people.
“Commoners from the city,” said Hepplewhit. “And the surrounding villagers. They’re all eager to see the men who are courting the Ice…” He cleared his throat. “Yes, our beloved princess. There’s been a lot of excitement over the past few weeks. So much visiting royalty in town, and a wedding coming up. The city has been abuzz with gossip. His Majesty decided to open up the gardens for this evening. If you could each step out and wave, perhaps say a few words?”
Lord Logan was already outside. “I’d be delighted,” said Kevin.
“I’m sure you know the drill. They just want to see you lads. You know, something to tell their friends and children. Some of them have come a long way.”
“The Princess is popular with her people?”
“Oh yes. Well, I wouldn’t say popular. But admired, in a way. His Majesty, of course, is regarded with great respect by the commoners. And he returns that respect.”
Bigelow examined Kevin’s tankard. “Clever of you to bring this along, Kevin.”
“Why is that, Sam?”
“Well, no princess wants to marry a man with an ugly mug.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Logan finished speaking. Kevin couldn’t hear the exact words. He could tell from the tone that the speech was aggressive and militaristic. The crowd gave him a round of applause.
Bigelow took his place on the balcony. Logan stepped inside. “Tiresome rabble,” he said.
“I quite agree,” said Harkness. “There’s something a tad degrading about having to pander to the great unwashed.”
“Well, noblesse oblige,” said Raymond. “We all have our roles to play.” They watched Bigelow speak. He was generating laughter from the crowd.
“There are some good-looking babes out there, though.” Harkness flipped his hair back.
“I should think they’d have better things to do with their time then to pry their noses into our affairs,” said Logan. He looked around irritably. “Where the hell has Timberline got to?”
Bigelow had just stepped inside. He waved a hand toward the balcony. “He’s down there.”
“What!” said Logan. There was a round of polite shoving and shuffling as all the suitors, except Bigelow, sought to get out onto the small balcony. Tripple, Ashbury, and Hepplewhit crowded behind them. Logan was the first to reach the balustrade and look down. “Now what is he doing?”
Left to himself in the ballroom, Bigelow smiled. “Working the crowd,” he murmured. “Working the crowd. You know,” he told a waiter, “I believe I’ll have a mug of that cider myself.”
* * *
Winslow hurriedly followed Kevin into the garden. The Prince of Rassendas was already surrounded, almost lost to sight in the press of people. Winslow noted with appreciation that they had cleaned up and were wearing their best clothes—apparently entering the Royal Gardens counted as a special occasion. Kevin was wading through the crowd, slapping the backs of the men, squeezing the hands of the women, patting the heads of the children. Thankfully, no one actually gave him a baby to kiss, although Winslow was sure the Prince would kiss one if he had to.
It was something he had learned from his father. Winslow had been there to hear it once. The King of Rassendas had been in his dressing room. “No monarch can rule effectively without the respect of the people,” he told the young prince. “Nor can the Lords. You can’t lead them against their will. Get support from the bottom, and the Lords will go with the crowd.”
Kevin nodded. King Eric had gone back to trying on black turtleneck sweaters. “How do you think these look with my shades?”
It was clear that the Prince was following this strategy now, garnering support from the bottom up. And it seemed to be working. Everyone the Prince touched left with a smile. “He seems a right good sort,” one florid-faced man told Winslow. “I think he’d make a fine husband for our princess.”
“Yes, I think so, too,” the valet replied. He pushed his way toward the Prince, finally getting close enough to hear Kevin speak with a man in a rough leather jacket.
“Came all this way to see a prince,” the man was saying. “I told her not to expect too much, but she insisted. I thought you’d be up on the balcony. I told her we’d just be waving to you from a distance. Now here you are, and she won’t say a word.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come on now, Emma darling. Don’t be rude. Come out and say hello to His Highness.”
Hiding behind the man’s leg was a small girl. For a moment she peeped out from under his coat, offering a tentative smile, wide dark eyes, and hair tied back with a new ribbon. The she ducked behind her father again. The Prince got down on one knee, so his face was almost level with her own.
“She gets shy, sometimes,” said the man, stroking her hair. “Then once she gets to know you, she’s a regular little chatterbox, she is.” He gently pushed the girl out in front him. “Emma, show His Highness what you brought.”
Reluctantly, the girl came forward, and Kevin could see she was holding a small, earthenware crock in her tiny hands. The top was covered with a piece of clean cloth, tied around the rim with string. Suddenly she thrust it at the Prince, and as soon as he took it, she turned back to her father and buried her face in his jacket.
“It’s mint jelly,” said the man. “She made it herself. With a little help from her Mum, isn’t that right, Emma?” The girl hugged him tighter and made no reply. “We thought we’d be leaving it for you. Didn’t think we’d actually be talking to you.”
“Thank you, Emma. I love mint jelly,” said the Prince. He stood back up. “Especially with my favorite meal, roast lamb.”
“You like lamb? I raise sheep myself.”
“Really?” said Kevin.
And here Winslow noticed that the man was wearing a shearling jacket and the pin of a minor guild official. It was the sort of thing that the Prince would pick up on immediately.
“As a matter of fact, Your Highness, our annual guild picnic is coming up. Now if you like roast lamb…” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Of course, no doubt you’re used to eating fancy foods, but if you’d care to drop by and say a few words…”
“I’d be delighted. Here.” He brought Winslow forward. “Winslow, pencil me in for a guild picnic next Thursday at two o’clock.” He turned back to the sheepman. “Give the details to my man here, and we’ll see if it can be arranged. Good-bye, Emma.”
The girl looked up briefly and gave a tiny wave.
“The picnic is next Thursday,” the man told Winslow. “At two…” He paused thoughtfully. Winslow made a mental note to set out wool clothing for the Prince and rehearse him on his speech “Sheep Raising, the Foundation of a Strong Economy.”
When he caught up to Kevin again the Prince was talking with a woman who spun flax. Her husband raised flax, her daughters spun it, and her uncles wove it. They were planning a large family reunion. Kevin promised to stop by. Winslow made a mental note to set out linen clothing and rehearse the Prince on his speech, “Flax Cultivation, the Foundation of a Strong Economy.”
Kevin continued to work the crowd, collecting more gifts of jams and preserves, hand-knit scarves, sweaters, gloves, mittens, baskets of fruit, carved wooden cups and bowls, and even a wooden flute. All of which were passed on to Winslow to carry. By the time they reached the edge of the gardens, the valet had his arms full and gifts stacked up to his chin. Kevin decided they had done enough. The other suitors were finished speaking. They had left the balcony, while the crowd below was thinning out and going home. The two men slipped through some bushes to follow an empty path back to the castle. Kevin stopped to take some of the heavier parcels from Winslow. When he turned back an old woman was standing in the middle of the path.
“Beware, Timberline,” she said. “Beware of the man in black.”
Kevin sighed. “Oh great, a soothsayer.” He shifted his parcels. “That’s all we need right now.”
They could barely see her in the darkness. It was the rasp in her voice that gave the impression of great age, a whispery sound like coarse sandpaper on soft wood. She wore a dark cloak with a hood, and her features were hidden in shadow, but when she held up a crooked finger, the moonlight gleamed off bone white skin. “Beware, Prince Kevin of Rassendas,” she repeated. “Beware…”
“Of the man in black. I got it the first time,” said the Prince. “Sorry, but I’ve never been impressed with seers and soothsayers. Save your sooth for another sucker. I don’t believe anyone can predict the future.”
“I knew you were going to say that. Beware the man…”
“Yes, yes. You all give the same vague, useless warnings that could mean anything. “Repent, for the End is Nigh. Beware the Ides of March. Watch out for the Man in Black.” Now what good is that? There are men wearing black clothes everywhere. Why can’t soothsayers ever be specific?”
“About six-foot-two, fourteen stone,” said the old woman promptly. The words were not loud, but they were clear and definite. “Brown eyes, dark hair parted on the left, small mustache and pointed beard. Likes his tea with lemon biscuits. Two lumps, no milk.”
Kevin wasn’t expecting a reply like this. “That could still describe a lot of people.”
“Slightly chipped upper left canine tooth. Small tattoo of a spider on the back of the right hand.”
“Um, that’s still…”
“Third button of his waistcoat will be missing.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Kevin moved closer. Now he could see the woman was bent and hunched over. “And just when exactly is this mysterious encounter supposed to take place? I don’t suppose you could…”
“Five days from now,” said the old woman. “A few hours past midnight. It will be chilly. Wear a sweater.”
“Chilly? It’s the middle of summer! And just what am I supposed to beware of?”
“Goodness, you’re a picky one. What is it? You want quatrains? I’ll give you quatrains. Pay attention.” She cleared her throat, rolled her eyes up until the whites showed in the patented, spooky prophetess manner, and rasped out:
“You shall not defeat the man in black
That which you seek, you won’t bring back
The guards will falter in the attack
And you will… you’ll… um… what’s another word that rhymes with black?”
“Snack,” said Kevin.
“Heart attack,” said Winslow.
“She already used attack.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
The woman was leafing through a pocket-sized rhyming dictionary. “Can’t read a word in this moonlight. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“No hurry. Listen, lady, if you could really see into the future, you wouldn’t be standing in the King’s garden at night making predictions. You’d be cleaning up on short-term investments.”
The old woman suddenly straightened up. “Good Lord!” she rasped. “That reminds me. I’ve got to see my broker. What with the market so uncertain and the change in interest rates…” She turned, took two steps off the path, and disappeared into the shadows. But from the darkness she called back once more. “Just beware, young Timberline. Beware of a tall man with dark hair, hypnotic eyes, a scarred face, an evil smile, and an insane laugh. Oh, and a pinkie ring.”
“Wait!” said Kevin. “What’s going to happen to interest rates?” He followed her off the path and looked around. The lights from the castle windows fell on an empty garden. The old woman had vanished.
He returned to the path. His valet had been watching all this over his stack of parcels. “What did you make of that, Winslow?”
“I must say, sire, that the seers here in Deserae certainly give value for money.”
“Yeah. Nonsense, of course. Did you happen to catch all of it?”
“I’m afraid that all I can remember now is to beware the man in black.”
“Yeah.” The Prince frowned. “Didn’t she say he had a beard? It’s got to be Logan, right? A man in black?”
“Perhaps not, sire. It’s hard to judge color in the lamplight. I think His Lordship may be wearing dark navy.”
“I think it’s black. Of course, everyone in the city knows I’m competing with Logan, so that’s not much of a prophecy. It just convinces me that they’re all a bunch of frauds.”
“I quite agree, sire. Still, Your Highness, it would have been nice…” Winslow hesitated.
“If she’d talked more about her investments?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Forget it, Winslow. Let’s go eat.”
* * *
They returned to the castle. Back inside, it was easy enough to find servants to care for their parcels. By the time the two returned to the Grand Ballroom, it had mostly emptied into the Banquet Hall. It was filled with long tables and seats with velvet cushions. But no one was sitting yet. They were all standing behind their chairs, waiting for Princess Rebecca to arrive. Between the guests, waiters were filling glasses, setting out baskets of rolls, and relighting any candles that had gone out. Candlelight gleamed off highly polished silver cutlery. New tapestries, of burgundy-and-gold cloth, draped the walls. A string quartet was playing chamber music. Kevin sent Winslow off to dine below stairs and took his place on the dais, alongside the other guests of honor. Bigelow nodded at him when he returned, then murmured an aside. “So we get to meet the Ice Princess at last. At least I’ll get a look at her before I leave town.”
“You’ve never seen her?”
“If my old man had his way, we’d never see our betrotheds until the wedding day. Bad for discipline, he thinks. He’s a bit old-fashioned. I take it you have seen her.”
“I did some diplomatic work here last summer,” said Kevin. Bigelow was smart enough to recognize this as a non-answer. He shrugged it off.
The suitors gathered on a raised platform, all on one side of a table, an assortment of Deserae’s nobility on the other side, and Lord Hepplewhit at the foot. (In their pursuit of the Princess, Deserae’s custom was that all suitors were considered of equal rank) Kevin was placed between Bigelow and Harkness, and across from Lady Tripple. She gave him an encouraging smile. The seat at the head of the table was empty, as were the chairs on either side. Hepplewhit talked with Raymond, while keeping half an eye on the clock. A door opened in the side of the banquet hall, and Princess Rebecca entered, preceded by two of her ladies-in-waiting and followed by two officers of the royal guard. The music stopped. As one man, Logan, Harkness, Bigelow, and Raymond leaned slightly forward.
When a man looked at the Princess Rebecca, the first thing that registered on his mind was an impression of curves. Curves that moved. Curves that swayed. Curves that flowed and rolled like waves on a tumultuous sea. Curves that shifted and slid under her clothes, making the fabric strain and stretch and hug her flesh at one spot, then suddenly ripple away to find a new curve to caress. A woman might notice the curves also, but she would also notice that the blond hair was tied up in a severe bun, the pale skin of her face showed only a trace of makeup, the blue eyes were every bit as cold as her reputation, and the lips, when she looked at the assembled suitors, were set in an expression of seemingly permanent disdain. Men did tend to notice these things, too. Eventually. It usually required three or four looks—sometimes as many as nine—before the average male could raise his eyes to Rebecca’s face at all. She was, in truth, just a little bit on the heavy side. But the extra weight had been distributed well. Her waist was narrow, so the extra padding on her hips and breasts simply exaggerated her hourglass shape.
“My God,” murmured Bigelow. “To think when my father mentioned the mountains of Deserae I thought he was talking about the countryside.”
“Shush,” said Kevin. “Be nice.” Rebecca’s dress was of a lightweight watered silk, sky-blue to match her eyes, and thin enough to reveal that there was nothing to conceal. No wire or whalebone supported that lush figure. It was all girl.
The Princess and her entourage reached the table and stopped. One of the officers stepped forward and pulled out her chair. She sat down, looked around the room, and nodded. The two ladies-in-waiting took their seats on either side of the princess. There was a great rustle of skirts as the rest of the women in the banquet hall sat down. The men remained standing until Hepplewhit gave the toast to the King. The music started. Hepplewhit sat down. Everyone else sat down. The officers withdrew. Conversation resumed.
A waiter with a tureen and a ladle appeared between Bigelow and Kevin. “Soup, sir?”
“Just dump it in my lap,” said Bigelow. “It will take my mind off what I’m missing.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Just a joke. What is this, turtle? Yes, I’ll have some soup. What do you think, Timberline?”
“The turtle soup here is always good.”
“I mean the Princess, you twit.”
Kevin gave her an uninterested glance. “A pretty girl.”
“Dammit, man, are you giving up or what? Look at Logan hanging over her every word. You’re going to have to lay the charm on pretty thick if you don’t want to lose out.”
“Lord Logan can pitch woo to the Princess all he wants, but it will help him not one jot. It is her father that needs to be persuaded. And the King will act on the advice of the Council of Lords. Those are the people who need to be convinced.”
“Well, that’s true. But it can’t hurt to get the girl on your side. I’ll discuss the subject in my after-dinner speech.”
“It’s your turn to speak tonight?”
“My topic will be Large Breasts, the Foundations of a Strong Economy.”
“A perennial favorite.”
Rebecca was already in conversation with the other men. “I understand, Raymond, that you consider yourself something of a poet.”
“Indeed, Your Highness. In fact, I have composed a poem in your own honor. Would you do me the favor of listening to it?”
“No. And you, Harkness. I’m told you are a student?”
“I am at university, yes.”
“And do you study something useful?”
“Geography, Your Highness.”
“I approve of that. There is so much about the globe that remains unknown. Perhaps you can fill some of those gaps in our knowledge. When you become an adult. Personally, I cannot abide an idle man. And you, Lord Logan?”
“I am far from idle, Princess. I am a man of action. I am in charge of my country’s defenses, and I have devoted myself to keeping Angostura secure. As you are no doubt aware, for some time we suffered from… disturbances, both from within and without. I am pleased to say that I have resolved those difficulties.”
“Commendable of you, I’m sure. Samuel Bigelow, many of my friends are looking forward to hearing you speak.”
“I appreciate that, Your Highness. But are you looking forward to it?”
“I am not. And you, Timberline. How do you occupy your time?”
“In idleness, Your Highness.”
As a conversation stopper, this served very well. Bigelow frowned at him and give a tiny sigh of exasperation. The rest of the table fell quiet. Lady Tripple raised her eyebrows. The ladies-in-waiting looked at Kevin with interest. Rebecca put down her spoon, cocked her head, and eyed Kevin severely. Kevin calmly took another spoonful of soup.
“Is that so, Prince Kevin?”
“Indeed yes, Your Highness. It is clear to me that most of the world’s problems are caused by the inability of men to sit quietly in a room and do nothing.”
“That sounds like a quotation.”
“It is, although I fear I cannot remember the source.”
“What nonsense!” said Logan.
“Do you find it hard work, this program of doing nothing?”
“It can be quite an effort sometimes, particularly when the situation cries out for dramatic action. But I persevere, for I believe that a man of my position should set a good example for others.”
“Hmm. I can respect the perseverance, if not the intention. So many men would be unable to stick to a rigorous program of inaction.” Princess Rebecca fixed her cold, clear eyes on Kevin and studied him for what seemed like a long time. The rest of the table watched them both. Kevin calmly finished his soup. “Prince Kevin, you intrigue me.” Suddenly, the Princess stood up. The rest of the room began to rise also. She motioned for them to remain seated. “Honored guests, please enjoy your dinners. Prince Kevin, we will continue our discussion in my salon at eight o’clock. Do be prompt.” And with that she swept out.
There was a strained hush at the table for a long moment, the kind of feeling you get when you are expecting a violent thunderstorm, but the clouds pass over without letting go. It lasted until the waiters came to set out new plates. Harkness was the first to break the silence. “If I were married to that girl,” he said to Raymond, “I would give her a sound spanking.”
“Would that do any good?”
“It would do me a world of good.”
“‘Prince Kevin, you intrigue me,’” repeated Bigelow. He clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old boy. You threw away the opening pawn, and she responded to your gambit. Good luck to you.”
“I’m sure we’ll have a pleasant conversation,” said Kevin noncommittally.
Logan said nothing. He just stared at Kevin with dagger eyes.
* * *
Thunk the Barbarian propped himself up against a tree, breathing in short gasps, for the pain in his chest was too great to allow deep breaths. On the brighter side, the pain in his ribs was less than the pain in his legs. Which was less than the pain in his head. “Heroism,” he told himself, “consists of hanging on one minute longer.” His father had taught him that, and he was sure his father had been quoting someone else, perhaps his own father. He never learned the source of the quote, but he did learn the lesson. Being a barbarian hero meant more than fighting and drinking and rescuing underdressed babes and wearing a necklace of wolves’ teeth. It meant… it meant… well, it meant hanging on when you couldn’t hang on any longer. It meant fighting when your arms were too weak to lift a sword. It meant ignoring cold and heat. It meant going without food or sleep or booze if that’s what it took to get the job done. It meant satisfying an underdressed babe even when you were too tired—not that he’d ever had that problem—besides, he’d been drunk.
And it meant taking another step when you couldn’t move a muscle. And when you couldn’t take another step, you crawled.
He took another step.
And then another. He’d been taking another step for days now. He’d lost track of the days and his vision had gotten pretty dark and it was hard to focus. Now it was night. There was a full moon out to light his way. How long had it been night? He didn’t remember the sun going away. But there was the moon, and there were plenty of stars out. And there were lights on the horizon that weren’t stars. Lights of the city. He headed that way.
He was walking on the road. During the day he left the road to shake off his pursuers, and at night he got back on. Now it was night and he was back on the road, even though he couldn’t remember finding it. He didn’t like that. He was Thunk the Barbarian, and he didn’t run away from anyone. They ran away from him. A hero died fighting. His father had died fighting. Granted, he had been fighting in a tavern over an unpaid bar tab. It was still fighting, though. But Thunk remembered he had something important to tell the King. That was all that counted.
The city was ahead. There were taverns in the city. He told himself he’d have a drink when he got there. And clean up some of this blood. And then he could sleep. Yes, drink and sleep. Right after he saw the King.
The next time he stopped, he told himself he’d only rest long enough to get his strength back. But his strength wasn’t coming back anymore. It was ebbing away, and he was running out of time. He knew now that he couldn’t stop again, that the next time he stopped he would stop forever. He’d have to keep walking.
And then crawl.
He pushed himself away from the tree with both arms and took an unsteady step forward. And then another. And another. He was walking in the woods again, amid oak and alder and beech. And lots of other trees he couldn’t recognize. Trees with flowers. When he broke out of the trees he could hear music. And hear voices. There were bushes, with paths in between. People were walking along the paths, men, women and children. He realized that he wasn’t in a woods, he was in a garden. Ahead he could see the castle, the large lighted windows, and the shadows of the people dancing behind them. He aimed himself in that direction, at the biggest window, with the lights and the music and the dancing and the people.
And staggered on.