Flight From Blithmore (16 page)
“I
prefer to start with the nose and finish with the ears,” the physician said.
“What
was the name of that inn again?” came the next question from the other Winmore.
This time he directed his words to Brandol. “The one where she fell ill?”
Brandol’s
eyes went to Master Henry as lightening struck his brain, leaving it blank as
fresh snow. What inn had Master Henry told them? He could not remember. He
tried to conjure a name, but his mind had gone blank.
“I—He—I
can’t remember.” He knew he’d paused too long before answering. “What—what’d he
say before?”
“I
find it hard to believe you’ve already forgotten the inn where your master’s
fiancée became ill.”
Brandol
was on the verge of vomiting. His face felt cold, like the last time a pretty
girl had spoken to him. Maggie had been there and said he’d gone horribly pale.
This Winmore’s tone was so filled with accusation that his brother even took
notice.
“Shall
I pay you then?” Master Henry asked. Brandol noticed his master’s face was
turning red.
“One
hundred crowns should cover the expense,” was the brother’s response.
“One
hundred crowns!” both the physician and Master Henry exclaimed, but Master
Henry added, “That’s outrageous!”
“You’re
the man who is being hunted by the King’s Guard, aren’t you? Rumors of you and
your journeyman have already reached our town.”
Master
Henry reeled back, clutching Isabelle’s hand with one of his own. “Journeyman?
No—no, it’s me and—and—and Susan.”
Brandol
gasped when he heard the word
journeyman
. Ruther had been the one to
accompany Master Henry. Ruther had been at the inn when all this started! He
should be here now! He was the better actor, the better liar, the better
everything. Why had James and Master Henry trusted any piece of the plan to a
worthless runt? While the room darkened in Brandol’s eyes, swirling yellow and
black and gray, Master Henry somehow seemed to maintain his calm.
“You’re
referring to—to the man who quarreled with the Emperor,” Master Henry answered.
“I am not that man.”
“The
story is already known here,” the Winmore brother told him, “and if you wish it
to remain here, it will cost you one hundred crowns.”
Brandol
glanced out the window. He saw Master Henry do the same. “I don’t have that
much gold with me.”
“Then
leave the vial and give us what you have,” the brother ordered.
“No,”
Master Henry said with such force that the Winmores looked at each other in
alarm. Brandol had never heard this tone of menace in his master’s voice. “I’ll
make you a better offer. I will pay you the amount I originally agreed, which
is double your standard price, and you will accept it. Refuse me and the cost
to you will be even greater.”
“You
mean to kill us?” the brother asked as his hand flew to cover his mouth. Both
Winmores stared at Master Henry in awe. Then the brother said, “I’ve heard the
journeyman is even more dangerous.”
“What
do you know of the journeyman?” Master Henry asked.
The
brother swallowed hard, but wouldn’t answer.
“I
would never harm either of you, especially after the service you’ve rendered
me. However, if you look out that window, you’ll see a flame hovering in the
air seventy yards away. That is the burning tip of an arrow held at the ready
by this woman’s brother, an expert marksman. Three such flames will be shot at
your roof at three different points, rendering it impossible for you to quench
the fire before losing this fine home.”
Both
brothers rushed to the window and jousted for position to see the sight Master
Henry had described. Although Brandol knew they could not distinguish the
figure of James in the darkness or at such a distance, he saw the effect it had
as they murmured to each other. As they stared, Master Henry removed from his
purse the price for their services and laid it on the table in the place of
Isabelle, whom he now cradled in his arms.
“We
accept your proposal,” one of the brothers said, turning back to see that
Master Henry and Brandol were already on their way out the door.
“Thank
you,” Master Henry called back. “That man will remain there through the night,
and should either of you attempt to leave the house . . . . ” The words hung in
the air like a dark cloud. “Tomorrow, should you feel so inclined, you may
alert whomever you wish. Until that time, I’m deeply grateful for your help.
Please spread the word that the Emperor poisoned my Isabelle, and had it not
been for our intervention, he would have carried her away as a slave to his
palace, to be used according to his pleasures. I had no choice to do what I did.”
Brandol
again rode Ghost and helped Henry steady Isabelle as he mounted Quicken. Master
Henry gave a low whistle, not for the horse, but for James. In response, James
balanced the burning torch on two forked sticks jammed into the ground, so the
torch rested at about the height of a man’s chest. Then he rejoined them, and
the three men with Isabelle rode together in silence. New fears vexed Brandol
as he rode Ghost in the darkness. The King’s Guard was searching for five
criminals for the assault on the Emperor: Master Henry and Maggie, James and
Isabelle Oslan, and Henry’s murderous accomplice in The Glimmering Fountain,
Brandol the journeyman. The guardsmen knew nothing of Ruther.
The Emperor’s New Toy
The
day after
the Emperor’s meeting with King Germaine, he decided to
return home. He had intended to spend the fall and winter in his palace, but
with so much unfinished business involving the Carpenter, his southern mansion
near the Neverak-Blithmore border now seemed a more ideal location. It provided
the important advantage of being closer to the lines of communication coming in
from his soldiers and spies stationed near or in Blithmore.
His
servants sent messages ahead of him with a detailed list of orders for the mansion’s
preparations. Only his best servants received the call to relocate to the
south, accompanied by seven of his concubines. A deep cleaning of the entire
mansion was put on the list, though this order came so frequently, it hardly
needed to be requested. Leaving Blithmore gave the Emperor great pleasure. He
missed the scent of the abundant conifer trees in his kingdom, he disliked the
flat accents of the Blithmorian folk, and the busyness of ruling Neverak
brought him a profound peace of mind. He needed that peace of mind now. Thanks
to the speed of his steeds and the precision of his servants, he arrived at his
mansion quickly.
It
had been two weeks since his assault at the inn, and still he heard no news of
the Carpenter or Isabelle. The Emperor stretched his patience by focusing his
energies on matters of the kingdom. When his time was less filled, he amused
himself with rides in the countryside and his beautiful concubines. The Emperor
also owned dozens of amusing diversions. Several of them had been sent down
with the servants and slaves. He had a pair of wings that enabled him to glide
down the Northern Cliffs in the summers. He had a tube-like breathing apparatus
that let him stay underwater as long as he wished. Lately, however, the toys
that most kept his interest were unique weapons.
While
he was attending the parade in Blithmore, his engineers had designed and
installed a spring-powered weapon into the arm of his palace throne. By sliding
a small panel forward, he could activate a concealed spring and release a small
poisoned spike. A trivial thing, but he looked forward to trying it when he
returned north. Another recent purchase had been thick leather boots with small
blades inserted at the toes. Today, he expected another visit from one of his
engineers to reveal a new diversion, though the engineer had not specified in
the letter what it would be.
True
to his daily routine, the Emperor woke up an hour after sunrise, exercised, and
took a light breakfast in the dining hall. For his morning meals, he preferred
small portions of vegetables and cheeses. After breakfast he was bathed by two
of his servants in water much hotter than most people could stand, but which he
had grown to enjoy. Baths were one of the Emperor’s true pleasures and were never
rushed or taken lightly.
“What
appointments do I have today?”
His
head servant read from a piece of parchment. “Melkin, the engineer, is first on
the schedule. Two noblemen have requested an audience in the late morning—a
dispute over land. Your Majesty also agreed to take lunch with that woman who
begged for a position as a concubine—Cecilia. After lunch, your Majesty is to
receive Sir Grellek to discuss the planning of a new town in the far eastern
corner and after which—”
“Tell
me the name of the town again.”
“Eastern
Krallickton.”
“I
hate that name,” replied the Emperor. “Do not let the meeting end without
reminding me how much I hate that name.”
“Yes,
your Majesty.”
The
Emperor sighed. He also hated land disputes. However, they occurred more
frequently than almost any other item of business. City planning didn’t offer
much excitement, either. “Continue.”
“After
Sir Grellek leaves, your Majesty requested to see Jackson Roving—”
“Who
is that?”
“The
letter writer you employed for the formal invitation of Miss Isabelle Oslan.”
“The
letter . . . yes, of course, I almost forgot. Keep my schedule as I have
arranged it except for the last appointment. Postpone it for half an hour. Do
not inform the letter writer about the change of time, and do not serve him any
refreshment as he waits.”
“Yes,
your Majesty.”
Not
long after his servants dressed him, a doorman entered and announced the
arrival of his engineer. Emperor Krallick ordered his attendant to escort the
guest to his reception hall, a much smaller version of the throne room in his
northern palace. The Emperor found the throne in his mansion to be much more
comfortable for prolonged sitting than his larger, more ornate, palace throne.
Despite all he had done to counter the problem, his palace throne often gave
him aches and pains when he sat too long. Several times, he’d considered
removing the throne altogether, but it had seated Neverak sovereignty for the
last five hundred years. A sense of nostalgia always forced him to reconsider.
After all, if they could handle it, so could he.
The
Emperor particularly liked this engineer, Melkin. He possessed a unique ability
to make any whimsical idea the Emperor conceived into a reality, and he
practiced impeccable behavior in the presence of royalty. After years on the
throne, listening to nervous stammering grew wearisome. Melkin was always
welcome in the Emperor’s reception halls.
“Good
morning, Melkin,” Emperor Krallick said with an affectionate tone added to his
already smooth voice.
“Good
morning to you, my Lord,” Melkin returned with a low bow. Melkin was a short,
stout man with small hands enabling him to do very fine work faster than most
men could do the same job of mediocre quality. He wore a long beard that
reached his chest, and his clothes, while not being the finest or the best cut,
were clean and acceptable. He carried a cloth bag under his arm that concealed
an unknown object.
“Are
you well, my friend?”
“I
am in good spirits today, my Lord,” Melkin said, reaffirming his statement with
the smile beaming behind his beard. “You requested that I surprise you with
something of my own invention, do you recall?”
“Yes,
good. Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”
With
a proud and dramatic flourish, Melkin removed the object of Emperor Krallick’s
curiosity from the bag. The Emperor’s face fell—it was essentially a ball of
metal with a long handle that ended in a large triangle instead of a grip. A
useless, blunt weapon.
When
Melkin saw the Emperor’s change of expression, he grinned and asked, “Your
Highness is displeased with it?”
The
Emperor continued to stare at the small metal ball with disdain. “I fail to see
its practicality . . . or any entertaining qualities it might be hiding.”
Melkin’s
beard quivered with mirth. “Hiding is the key word here, my Lord. Like some of
your other purchases, its usefulness is limited while the entertainment value
is high. Perhaps my Lord is familiar with Crackin’?”
Emperor
Krallick had to think for a moment. “Are you referring to that children’s
game?”
Melkin’s
head bobbed with enthusiasm. “The same, my Lord. This is the device that many
of the poorer families in the country use for play: a small mace head sitting
on a large compressed spring and a sturdy handle. One hand is placed on the
shaft to keep it steady, the other hand grasps the base of the triangle grip.”
The
Emperor shifted his weight in his chair, but his eyes remained fixed on the
engineer.
“Have
you seen it played, your Majesty?”
“I
have not.”
“I
admit it’s not a game I will let my own children play. However, it is catching
on even among the nobles.”
“Knowing
many of our nobles, of course, this doesn’t surprise me.”
“The
two participants stand an agreed distance apart and take turns launching the
ball at the other. If the person fired upon moves to dodge the ball, it’s a
loss of a point. If the ball misses or the person allows himself to be hit, it
is no loss of a point. A combination of skill and nerve, you see.”
“And
this sport is popular?” the Emperor asked in complete disbelief.
“Yes,
my Lord. Several new contests for the youth are formed each spring.”
The
Emperor leaned to his servant and whispered, “Make a note to address the game
of Crackin’ at the next council meeting.” Then, to the engineer he said, “Very
interesting, but as you may have deduced, I am not enticed by a child’s game
that risks injury to my skull.”
“Yes,
yes. I can understand why, your Highness,” Melkin said, forcing a strong laugh
from his gut. “I gave you the information only to show you why this particular
purchase will be worthy of your attention and money.” He paused, and the effect
was not lost on Emperor Krallick, who was now interested in what this child’s
toy might do. “If you will observe, this handle is standard. The latest models
force the players to build greater wrist strength. By pulling down on the
triangle . . . . This may cause some damage, where shall I aim it, my Lord?”
Emperor
Krallick pointed lazily to the east wall.
Melkin
nodded and finished, “By pulling the triangle, the ball is released.”
Emperor
Krallick watched as Melkin pulled the lever and released the ball. It flew high
in the air with a force that surprised him, but even more amusing were the
several long jagged spikes that suddenly emerged from the interior of the ball.
When one of these points struck the wall, it left a long scratch in the stone
and fell to the ground.
The
Emperor smiled as he watched the engineer reset the device until it looked like
no more than a harmless ball and stick again.
“Would
you like to try it?” Melkin asked as he moved forward to present it to his
Emperor.
“After
it has been cleaned, of course, I will be glad to,” the Emperor said with an
amused expression. “What is your selling price?”
Melkin
fingered his beard and glanced up at the Emperor. “This was, my Lord, trickier
than I expected and so my price will be slightly higher. I ask for one hundred
seventy-five crowns.”
“Done.”
The
Emperor watched Melkin’s face fill with joy. His mood was too good to be
disturbed by a pittance of seventy-five crowns more than Melkin’s customary
asking price.
“Thank
you, your Majesty.”
The
Emperor was still watching the metal ball as he responded to the engineer.
“Wonderful work. Of course, there is one question you have left unanswered.”
“How
may I be of service, my Lord?”
“Has
it a name?”
“Valeek,
after my wife whose personality inspired its design. That is, if your Majesty
will have it.”
The
Emperor gave Melkin a rare smile. “See my treasurer before you leave to collect
your fee.”
“Thank
you again, my Lord.” Melkin bowed so low his beard touched the stone floor.
The
Emperor’s servants escorted Melkin away and carried out the Valeek for
cleaning. Other servants came in to take their places.
The
day’s events moved along as planned. The land dispute was both tedious and
grating on the Emperor’s nerves. Cecilia, on the other hand, proved to be not
only beautiful (though not as magnificent as his latest acquisition, Isabelle),
but also charming and interesting. The Emperor made it a point to eat a meal
with every woman before he decided whether or not to take her in as a slave.
Watching someone eat, he’d discovered, revealed volumes of information about a
person’s behavior, personality, cleanliness, and upbringing. During the lunch,
he told her what expectations he had of her, and what she might expect from
him. The meal ended amicably, and he ordered two servants to escort her to his
northern palace at once.
The
meeting with Sir Grellek went as expected: both interesting and dull. While the
Emperor considered this new town to be highly important for his future strategies,
the designs and layout were less vital to him than to Sir Grellek, a young
noble with considerable political influence for his age, who hailed from far
northern Neverak. Unfortunately, Emperor Krallick’s servant dutifully reminded
his Majesty how much he hated the name Eastern Krallickton before the nobleman
left, which forced them to spend another half hour discussing appropriate names
for the town. In the end, they agreed upon nothing, and another meeting was
set.
Due
to the length of the visit, the Emperor had no time to experiment with his new
Valeek. Reluctantly, he ordered a servant to escort the letter writer into the
reception hall. When the writer arrived, seeing him sparked the Emperor’s
memory of their last face-to-face. A local nobleman caught philandering had
recommended the writer’s talent to the Emperor after employing the writer to
compose a poem for his wife and passing it off as his own work. When the writer
had answered the Emperor’s summons, he had appeared at the palace dressed in a
dramatic fashion and sporting a confident air. Today was no different. The
writer’s audacity was in full bloom. He strolled into the reception hall
wearing a long cape over his white shirt and green pants. To top it off, he
wore a flamboyant orange cap on his head ornamented with a pink feather. His
handlebar moustache appeared to have been carefully trimmed and straightened.
