Fool's Errand (16 page)

Reaching his destination at last, he withdrew a key from the pocket of his beautiful, ermine-trimmed robe, inserted it into the heavy iron lock and twisted hard. The lock—which had recently been oiled—fell open at once. Grabbing the nearest torch off the wall, Mordecai pushed open the heavy door and peered inside.

The cell was dark and stifling, of course, with air foul enough to make one retch. On the other hand, it was reasonably dry and far larger than many cells, some of which were so tiny that on top of everything else, their occupants must suffer the torment of never being able to fully stretch out their painfully cramped muscles. This cell also boasted a comfortable chair—though the occupant of the cell, the king's beloved nursemaid, the cow known as Moira—was quite unable to enjoy sitting upon it since the short chains that shackled her to the wall did not reach that far. Instead, she sat on a fetid pile of straw on the cold, hard ground.

In addition to her chains, the nursemaid wore a ragged shift that she, herself, had been forced to strip from the fresh corpse of a toothless, grey-haired old woman one of the guards had discovered lying in an unlocked cell. The nursemaid also bore the marks of the beating General Murdock had personally bestowed upon her after abducting her and dragging her to this place. On the ground beside her were a nearly empty bucket of water and a shiny silver platter heaped with wilted grass and clover—a little jest thought up by Mordecai, who'd not wanted the “cow” to think he'd forgotten to provide her with something to eat.

“Moo!” he called out now, by way of greeting.

With considerably more vigour than Mordecai thought she had any business having given that she'd not eaten human food since her abduction four days past, Moira turned her head and squinted up at him.

“You,” she said.

“Yes, me,” he agreed, trying not to feel piqued by her lack of terror.

Shuffling forward into the room, he shoved the torch close to her face for the pleasure of seeing her jerk back from the flames. He then set the torch in a nearby bracket and settled himself upon the chair. Sighing to emphasize to the cow just how comfortable the chair was, Mordecai lifted a pair of rusted iron pliers off a nearby table of implements.

“I apologize for not coming to visit you earlier,” he said. “I've been much occupied above ground in the land of the living. After seeing the Gypsy and the princess off on their quest for the healing Pool of Genezing—they mean to find it for me, you know, that I may be made well and whole—I spent one day letting the king anguish over your mysterious disappearance and then another two days standing idly by while the fool convalesced—”

“His Majesty was ill?” asked Moira, her normally placid features animated by sudden loving concern. “Is he quite recovered?”

“Oh, he is well enough,” said Mordecai with a flare of irritation.

“I am glad,” murmured Moira with obvious relief. “I will pray that the Fates keep him so, and that they will keep the princess safe, as well. The king likes her, and so do I. She is kind and wise, and plays a clever game of cards.”

If they'd been sitting in the king's chambers, such a deliberately provocative statement would have driven Mordecai into a blind rage. However, the sight of the cow chained to the wall—hungry, in pain and knowing that her ability to draw breath was a privilege that he could choose to snatch away at any moment—miraculously enabled him to remain calm. Absently dragging the tip of his finger along the sharp edge of the pliers, he said, “Who and what you like are of no interest to me or anyone else—”

“They were always of interest to His Majesty,” reminded Moira.

“Yes,” snapped Mordecai, pressing his fingertip against the pliers' edge with such force that it began to bleed. “And look where your meddling has gotten him: this very afternoon, he was forced to advise the great lords of the realm that he wished me to continue to rule in his stead. Shortly, he shall be forced to announce his betrothal to Lord Bartok's daughter. A short while after that, he shall be forced to name me his heir. The Princess Persephone was given one hundred days to return to Parthania with proof that she and the cockroach have found the Pool of Genezing. If she accomplishes this unlikely feat, she and the king will both perish in unfortunate—and probably gruesome—accidents; if she fails to accomplish this feat, she and the king will likewise die in agony. And on that glorious day, I shall ascend to the throne. So you see, you thick-headed cow, the king's love of nobodies has made him a weakling, paving my path to glory and dooming him. Oh, and lest you start thinking too highly of yourself, it is not just you that he hopes to spare by bending to my will—it is also that whore of a sister of his and the vast herds of nameless, faceless lowborns whom he knows will be cut down if he does not do my bidding.”

When the cow smiled at this—as though she was proud of the king's spineless behaviour—the only thing that prevented Mordecai from driving the sharp tip of the pliers deep into her eye was the concern that he might accidentally pierce her brain and kill her. He'd waited so long for the pleasure of making her suffer that he would not risk ending her life too quickly.

“I wish there was some way I could tell His Majesty that I would gladly die to see him freed of your tyranny,” she said now.

“Well, you can't, and even if you could, we both know he'd never accept your offer,” said Mordecai impatiently. “However, you'll be happy to know that there
is
something you can do for him.”

Holding the pliers out toward her, he opened and closed them several times, smiling at the delicious snipping sound they made.

“The king has requested proof that you are alive,” he explained as he rose to his feet and shuffled toward her. “You can give it to him—proof soft and warm enough to convince even the greatest skeptic that you yet breathe.”

Moira gazed at him without fear.

“Hold out your hand,” he commanded.

After a moment's hesitation, she wordlessly did as he asked.

Smiling, Mordecai set the pliers at the base of her left index finger. “Moo,” he whispered as he slowly squeezed.

FIFTEEN

Ninety-seven white beans left in the jar

^“
M
ARRY
ME?” GASPED PERSEPHONE
, who was finding it as hard to breathe as if she'd abruptly found herself in corsets laced up by a giant who knew not his own strength.

“Persephone—” began Azriel.

“No!” she cried, scurrying away from him, though he'd made no step toward her.
“No!
The idea … the very
notion
is … is
preposterous!”

“Actually, it isn't preposterous at all,” said Cairn slowly. “You see, if one is adopted by our tribe as a child—as Azriel was—and later, upon coming of age, swears the oath and takes the mark, it is the same as blood to us. Though an adult cannot be adopted—or, as Tiny pointed out, simply declare himself a Gypsy—an adult
can
marry into the tribe, and if he or she does so, it is once again the same as blood to us. And
that
means that if you were to marry Azriel, you would become a Gypsy—and any who shared your blood would become Gypsies by association.”

“In other words, whether he wanted to or not, her brother, the king, would become a Gypsy,” said Rachel in a wondering voice.

“A Gypsy
King,”
said Tiny in an equally wondering voice.

“Oh, now, hold on a moment—”

“Azriel, you say that this Erok King Finnius told you that he means to see to the welfare of
all
people?” said Fayla, who did not seem to have noticed that Persephone was speaking.

“Yes,” nodded Azriel. “He also said that he means to answer for how the tribes have been treated and to do what he can to unite the realm.”

“The prophecy said that there would be a Gypsy King whose coming would unite the five tribes of Glyndoria and set things to right for all people,” said Cairn, her words coming more quickly now. “This Erok king vowed to do more or less the same thing!”

“I was struck by the same thought when I first heard His Majesty speak the words,” said Azriel. “And as I mulled them over afterward, I began to wonder about recent events. Making our way to Parthania only to have Persephone carted away to the palace … fleeing the dungeon with knowledge of a lost royal twin only to discover that Persephone is that twin. escaping execution at the hands of the Regent by promising to find the healing pool only to be told that if we do not do so King Finnius will die. Finnius—the king who, unprompted, gave me his word that he'd protect us should we ever choose to come out of hiding and settle by the pool.”

“Marry the girl … find the pool … save the king … fulfill the prophecy. It all fits,” breathed Cairn, her eyes aglow with excitement. “Nay, it
more
that fits, for on that long-ago terrible night when the Seer spoke to me of the prophecy, I asked her why she could not have had a vision of the healing pool. She told me that perhaps the coming king was meant to find the pool and to use the might of his great armies to protect us from those who would lust after its power. I think now that she'd already guessed that the pool and the prophecy were entwined but had not Seen exactly
how
they were entwined.”

“But our Azriel has figured it out,” boomed Tiny proudly, giving his friend such a wallop on the back that he nearly knocked him off his feet.

“And the
truly
remarkable thing,” continued Cairn, “is that if he has figured correctly—and I can well believe that he has—not only will our people get that for which they have waited so long and suffered so much, but the princess will also see her dearest hope fulfilled.”

Persephone—who'd been on the brink of offering vociferous protest to this mad talk—was brought up short by these last words. “What do you mean?” she asked guardedly.

Cairn spread her hands wide. “Only that if your brother is the prophesied Gypsy King, it would be in my people's best interests to help you locate the pool, that he might be saved. But if he is
not
, we'd be foolish to allow you to risk your life venturing forth into the dangerous tribal frontiers, for there can be little doubt in anyone's mind that you are the girl whose great destiny it is to help set a Gypsy King upon the throne. You are an Erok princess—power, privilege and influence are yours by right of your royal birth. I cannot see why the Fates would have sent us you if they meant the great destiny to fall upon the shoulders of Rachel, a girl we found behind a fishmonger's stall.”

Though this made more sense than Persephone cared to admit, she thought it an unkind thing to say in front of Rachel. So, after giving her doppelgänger's hand a sympathetic squeeze, she tossed her head at Cairn and said, “The Fates play tricks all the time.”

“They do indeed,” agreed the Gypsy woman, whose dark eyes slid toward Azriel as she lightly added. “And it appears that they've chosen to play their latest trick on
you.”

Persephone scowled as she suddenly realized that she could not argue this. For if she did not marry Azriel, Finn could not be the Gypsy King. And if he could not be the Gypsy King, the Gypsies would attempt to stop her from looking for the healing pool. And even if they were unsuccessful in their attempt, she did not see how—alone, unaided and without the first clue where to start looking—she would possibly be able to find the pool and get back to Parthania before the beans in the jar ran out—and Finn's time with them.

Still.

It was no small matter, getting married. For one thing, it was forever. And for another thing, as her wedded husband, Azriel would have a right to tell her what to do and to beat her if she did not comply. It would be like being a slave all over again! Worse even, because Azriel would have a right to expect her to fulfill certain marital …
duties.

Duties that Persephone had no intention of being cornered into fulfilling.

And so, smiling at Azriel in a way that would have made a less oblivious man run for his life (or, at the very least, reach down to protect his manhood), Persephone took him by the elbow and propelled him back into the cool darkness of the tunnel so that they could share a few words in private.

“Careful how you grip,” said the handsome rascal affably as he strode along before her. “For some reason, your fingers are pinching a little—”

Abruptly releasing his elbow, Persephone darted forward and spun around to face him. “You should have warned me that you were planning to
propose,”
she hissed, reaching out to give him a real pinch.

Azriel let out a yelp of pain and surprise, but instead of jumping beyond the reach of her menacing digits, he grabbed her wrists and yanked her close.

“I didn't tell you because I didn't think you'd believe my reason for wanting to marry you,” he explained unrepentantly as he transferred both wrists to one hand so that he could wrap his free arm around her. “I was worried that you'd suspect me of having less than …
honourable
intentions. I hoped that if my proposal was immediately followed by the words of others who could plainly see that our marriage had a higher purpose that you'd be more inclined to agree to be my bride.”