Fortune's Fool (2 page)

They didn’t think twice about the very powerful and, at the same time, very delicate magic that kept the water warm, those without gills breathing, and predators peaceful. This was the only place in the Kingdom where a seal could swim with an orca and the orca wouldn’t even think of harming it.

Sea Kings many generations ago had bargained for that spell. Up above the surface, storms might rage and winter snow might pepper the waves; here it was pleasant enough that tropical fish and other creatures of warmer climes played among corals.

And it was the day that Katya caught one of her would-be suitors trying to use some unauthorized magic here—magic that might well upset that finely tuned balance—that she realized that the young men of her father’s Court were either empty-headed idiots
or
one of Mischa’s warriors. There just was no middle ground.

Perhaps that was because any young man even remotely useful to his parents was either sent to the Royal Guard or kept at home to manage the business or estates. But when you had an ornamental dunce sitting around doing nothing but making idle trouble, your only real solution for what to do with him was to send him to court and hope he could make a good marriage alliance. If he could snare a Princess, all the better.

If there was one thing the various peoples of the Sea were, it was prolific. The Royal family was by no means the only one with an entire shoal of offspring. The Sea was dangerous; outside the protections of the Palace there were killing storms, giant octopi and squid, and an entire bestiary of monsters. There were undersea quakes, volcanoes, whirlpools, and landslides. And then there were the wars between Kingdoms, and the inevitable appearances of SeaHags and other evil magicians whenever things threatened to remain peaceful for a while. The Tradition might not rule beneath the waves with quite so firm a hand as it did on Dry Land, but it was powerful enough to stir up trouble, and plenty of it.

Now, the North Sea Kingdom had been peaceful since Katya’s father—who, according to her sources, people were starting to call “Vladislav the Merry”—had fought his way to the throne over the bodies of several would-be rulers who’d tried to keep him from taking it. Vladislav wanted to keep things that way. Although he was an awe-inspiring fighter, he hated conflict—but he was very, very good at handling people, at politics, and at history.

The result was that his reign so far had been
so
peaceful that the various Noble families had seen a great many sons survive, who would in previous reigns have made fatal errors of judgment.

That was what, in this generation, had been sent off to Court.

When Katya had reasoned all that out, she had vowed that she was not going to even
think
about courtship unless the young man in question was at least as skilled and clever as she. He didn’t have to be skilled in the same ways—she’d be perfectly happy with a highly intelligent scholar, for instance—but he had to be a match for her.

So far, the crop of young fellows swarming her had failed miserably in producing someone of that order.

She had the sense that her sisters, and perhaps her brothers, too, felt the same way. Certainly Tasha was not showing any signs of welcome to the few who dared approach her. In a lot of ways, Katya envied her. She might not look intimidating, but the fact that she was a sorceress-in-training scared the scales off most of those poor fish.

Whereas the essence of what made Katya just as dangerous was by necessity cloaked in secrecy. She couldn’t be her father’s hidden weapon if everyone in Court knew what she was and where she went.

She wound her way through the halls of mother-of-pearl and coral, of abalone and amber, checking the usual places where Vladislav might be. And finally she found him.

The King was in his counting house, but he was not the one doing the counting of the money. Four earnest, clerkly Tritons were tallying up the contents of what must have been a treasure ship. Gold and silver bars already lay neatly stacked, awaiting transfer to the vaults. At the moment, it was the contents of several chests that occupied their attention.

Katya’s eyes gleamed a little as she surveyed the wealth. From the fact that the styles and gems of several different lands were jumbled together in the one she was nearest to, she suspected that the vessel that had sunk must have been a pirate raider. If so, good riddance. The Sea People were always being blamed for the depredations of pirates, and many a war had been started between Dry Land and Sea because the Drylanders were certain that the Sea People had been plundering their ships.

“Ah, now, save this out,” the King said, pulling out a delicate tunic woven of tiny gold and silver links. “This should be in Galya’s wardrobe.”

In her arsenal, you mean, Father
, Katya thought with amusement. Galya was the most beautiful of his daughters, the one that displayed the Siren blood they all had from their maternal grandmother most clearly, and she was, next to Katya, the most subtle weapon he had to deploy.

Not subtle in and of herself; her seductive lure was more like a bludgeon to the head. But subtle in how Vladislav used her.

Any time he wanted to read a man, or deflect his questioning, or confuse him, or make him forget all about caution, all he had to do was bring Galya in for some pretext or other. Katya hadn’t seen a man yet who didn’t end up with his eyes riveted on Galya’s magnificent bosoms—or, rarely, some other part of her—within the first few heartbeats. And it was certain that as he stared, he was not thinking of how best to negotiate with Vladislav.

This delicate tunic would allow Galya’s body to shine through while giving the illusion of modesty. It was exactly the sort of thing that delighted her.

It would also be cursed heavy. For all that the garment was a work of art, Katya did not envy her the wearing of it.

“And what of you,
belochka?
” he asked. “Do you see anything here your heart craves?”

His eyes flickered from her to the chest and back again and she read the wordless message clearly. There must be rumors about her again. Possibly only that she was too serious, too unfeminine, but those were rumors easily quashed with a moment of girlish vanity.

Fortunately there were some things in that chest that she would like. With a squeal of glee, she pulled out six elaborate hair sticks of the sort the people of Qin wore. One pair was done in the likeness of cascading fuchsia blossoms, the blossoms and leaves being formed of delicately carved, whisper-thin semi-precious stone. One pair featured the Phoenyx-bird and the Dragon, wrought in gold and silver, every feather and scale perfectly represented. And from the final pair, chains of tiny golden bells descended, so that the wearer would be surrounded by gentle chiming as she moved.

Of course, the fact that these “hair sticks” were absolutely lethal weapons was something best kept between the two of them. How these ornaments had come into the hands of pirates she had no clue, but they were one of the many weapons used by a certain class of courtesan-assassins, who would insert themselves into a Qin-lord’s concubines and wait, sometimes for years, before striking.

It was a good tactic. One Katya did not have the patience for, but a good tactic nonetheless.

“Come, my daughter. My business here is finished, and these young men can complete the tally without me. Tell me of your day.” Vladislav smiled at his daughter. He was possibly one of the most gorgeous Kings of his line to date, and that was not just her admittedly biased opinion. The Siren blood that made Galya so stunningly beautiful was expressed in him as powerful masculine charisma. He truly was a “golden king;” blond, clean-shaven, he had all the physical perfection of a statue of a god. Square-jawed, with startling blue eyes, a musical voice, and a ready wit, it was small wonder that he was also known as “Vladislav the Handsome.”

But this was his cue to her. It was time for them to find a place in private to talk.

Her heart leaped with excitement. This could only mean he had a task for her that she must carry out in secret.

And that almost certainly meant a spying trip to Dry Land.

“Sasha Feliks Pavel Pieterovich, Prince of Led Belarus, you are a fool.” King Pieter Ivan Alexandrovitch glared at his youngest son, who looked back at him with a winsome smile.

“Thank you, Father,” he replied. “It is nice to know I am doing my job.”

Both men burst into laughter, quickly joined by the other four of King Pieter’s sons. The six of them were gathered beside the biggest fireplace in the private quarters of the King’s family. This was a smaller stone fortification inside a stone fortification, an actual building separate from the rest of the granite crag that was the Palace of Led Belarus.

Nevertheless, despite that this place looked like a prison from the outside—since it had began as a fortress, there was no gentle, winding path to it—on the inside it was warm and welcoming. This was thanks in no small part to the fact that some long-ago King had decided he was fed up with living in a cave, and had created entirely new inside walls, floors, and ceilings of warm, light-colored wood. The floor was polished and shining, the walls looked surprisingly festive with their ancient weapons and hunting trophies; bright embroidered cloths covered every flat surface, and benches with cushions beckoned an invitation to come and sit. Even the ceilings were cheerful, with every inch of every beam carved and fancifully painted.

Sasha grinned. King Pieter looked like a bear, sounded like a bear, and people tended to dismiss him as one of those fellows who had become King only because his father had been King.

But Pieter was as shrewd as they came, as his father and grandfather before him had been. And being the Fool was, indeed, Sasha’s “job.”

Sasha plopped himself down on the hearthstone, put on a simpleton’s expression, and grinned up at his father and brothers.

Led Belarus was a Kingdom that had no Godmother, nor a Wizard or Sorcerer, but King Pieter’s grandfather, the then-Prince Rurik, had surveyed this situation, pondered it when his own father had still been alive, and had decided to do something about it.

He’d lured a Godmother into teaching him.

It hadn’t been easy. First he’d had to get some dragon blood so he could understand the speech of the beasts and birds. Fortunately, he had been able to make a bargain with a Great Wyrm laired up in the nearby Cassian Mountains. That bargain still held, in fact. There was a herd of very fine cattle that, in effect, belonged to the Wyrm Lukasha now, but was tended by the Royal Herdsmen. Every other day, Lukasha helped himself to one; when the herd grew too thin, another lot was driven up to replace it. In return, Lukasha came to a secret meeting place three times a year to be bled. Dragon’s Blood was potent stuff, with many magical uses, and the Kings of Led Belarus were able to barter many favors from those magicians they trusted for a small vial of it. This more than made up for the cost of a few hundred head of cattle a year.

But of course, having a ready supply on hand meant that from then on, the entire Royal Family of Led Belarus could speak and understand the beasts of the field and the birds of the air.

Now to be honest, the gift was something of a nuisance, so far as Sasha was concerned. For the most part, the beasts of the field and the birds of the air didn’t have a great deal to say. You had to learn how to ignore them, like the background chatter of old gossips; when he’d first drunk the Dragon’s Blood, he’d spend the whole day listening to dogs barking, “Hey! Hey! Hey hey hey hey hey!” Only when the beast was, itself, intelligent—either because of a spell cast on it, or because The Tradition deemed it appropriate—did the Gift really come into play.

Although…his elder brother Kostenka did claim it was useful to listen to what the crows, ravens, and jackdaws were saying when he was hunting.

Well, once Prince Rurik had made his bargain and gotten the Gift, his next task had been to catch the Mare of the Night Wind, and get from her the boon of the services of three sons in return for her freedom. But the horses followed the Tradition. There was beauty, intelligence, and magical ability and most creatures only got two out of the three. The first two stallions were stunning, fleet, and utterly worthless to him except as the bride-price for the Princess he eventually determined to wed. And that was only later. The third, however, was the Little Humpback Horse…wise, clever, ugly, and very, very magical.

But he had not wanted the services of the Humpback Horse for himself. The little fellow could fly, travel as fast as his mother, and offer the best of advice. And after a careful negotiation with the beast, he had found a Godmother willing to teach him as a trade for the Humpback Horse’s aid.

And so Prince Rurik had learned all about The Tradition, that insensate force that guided all life in the Five Hundred Kingdoms. He’d learned how it worked, what drove it, and how it could be manipulated to work in your favor. And he, in his turn, had taught all this to his children and his grandchildren.

He had made it very clear to them that there must always be a Scholar of The Tradition among the King’s offspring. Magic was not a gift in the lineage, so none of them could ever aspire to become a Wizard or Godmother—which was rather too bad. But at least the Kings of Led Belarus would always be able to have someone who could predict what The Tradition might force on them and the Kingdom, and act accordingly.

Right now, that Adviser was Sasha’s Uncle Zhenechka; always scholarly by nature, he found following the twists and turns that The Tradition made fascinating to puzzle out. Zhenechka’s successor would be Sasha’s brother Yasha, dedicated with all his earnest heart to keeping the people of Led Belarus safe from all the possible evils that might befall them.

And here was how very, very clever Rurik and the current Advisers were with regards to the Royal Family.

The Tradition in Led Belarus had a great deal to say about how the young Princes would turn out, based on how many of them there were. The Traditional role for the eldest and heir was that of the Arrogant Bully, who nevertheless could be redeemed by insulting some magician or spirit and performing its tasks until he learned humility. Prince Adrik had walked through that particular lesson before he was thirteen.

The Tradition for the second born was as his brother the King’s right-hand man, the leader of his troops. It had been no problem for Prince Anatolii to fit into that role.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth born were the luckiest in a way. They were able to choose their lot in life. Yasha had happily apprenticed himself to Zhenechka as Adviser-in-waiting, and the rest had found themselves niches here and there as Zhenechka advised them.

But Sasha, the seventh born…

He had come late in his mother’s life, and been entirely unexpected. And The Tradition had a lot to say about the seventh born. Though not usually magical by nature, although there were exceptions, nevertheless, Traditional Magic was destined to circle strongly about him. And his role would be—the Wise or Fortunate Fool.

Now, the Wise Fool was a feature in so many tales and legends that Sasha had long since lost count of them. That made it a pattern that The Tradition was going to be working very hard to force him into. But the Wise Fool was not really a fool as such….

No, he was a dreamer, a planner. Not a warrior. Very often a poet. And there was one thing that he did for his country that could not be Traditionally duplicated in any other fashion.

He brought them all Luck.

Traditionally, there was no particular way in which the Wise Fool needed to bring the Luck, as long as he did something that could be linked into the magic of The Tradition itself.

Now as it happened, there could not possibly have been a better match, temperamentally, for the role of the Wise Fool than Sasha.

He
was
musical, and music was a potent link for The Tradition. He was not much like his older brothers, being smaller and lighter than they. Not that he was bad at combat, but not the sort that they were
good
at. If it ever came to a war, and he had to fight, he would be darting in and out with light armor and long knives while they laid waste to their foes with ax, mace, and heavy broadsword. Prince Adrik called him “Ferret”—mockingly in public, jestingly in private.

He
was
a thinker, a scholar, and studied The Tradition and anything else he could get his hands on alongside his brother Prince Yasha. In private, Yasha called him “Little Owl.” In public, Yasha berated him and called him “Little Fool.”

For that, too, was an aspect of the Wise Fool. So far as the rest of the world was concerned, Sasha’s family despised him. That was how The Tradition wanted it.

But from the very beginning, the tiny boy with the too-wise eyes had gotten it all very carefully explained to him.
We must shout at you before other people, but it is all a game. We love you. You are our treasure, our blood, our Fortune
. And he had been precocious enough to at least understand the difference between what was said and done in public, and what was said and done in private. Before too very long, he was clearly enjoying the “game” aspect, the way his entire family fooled the rest of the Court and indeed the whole kingdom. His greatest joy had been when he had acted particularly stupid, been threatened with a thrashing, chased into the family’s private quarters, then picked up, swung around and praised for his inventiveness.

Not that, as a child, he hadn’t gotten into some trouble for taking advantage of his position. He’d been soundly thrashed, and more than once, for exceeding the bounds of what was permitted in his mischief and foolery. He was not as a child, and was not now, any kind of an angel.

“You skirted very near the pale today, my son,” his father growled, an expression of mixed pride and irritation on his bearlike, bearded face. “That business with the boyars—one more prank and I would have been forced to thrash you in public.”

“That business with the boyars” had involved Sasha getting tangled up with their huge fur cloaks, tumbling among them, tripping them up and destroying their dignity and tempers, all the while easily dodging the blows they’d aimed at him.

“Yes, but you got to soothe their tempers with vodka, and got them to sympathize with you. You had them eating out of your hand, Father.” Sasha had known what he was doing—they had entered the doors of the Palace hating one another and determined to do nothing to cooperate. He had forced them together, and given them something else to vent their ire on.

Well, all right, the truth was that they were a lot of pompous windbags and he had wanted to see them deflated. He’d counted on vodka and his father to smooth things over again.

King Pieter aimed a mock blow at his head. He ducked. “Now I am going to have to chase you out to give credence to the tale that I am angry with you,” his father said. “Don’t do that again, or it will be more than pretense. These men are touchy, and I’m negotiating for a bride for your brother. I don’t want that to fail because of your mischief.”

Instantly, Sasha was abashed. “I didn’t know, Father,” he said apologetically. “I wouldn’t have been so irritating if I had.”

“Hmph,” his father grunted. “Keep in mind that I don’t tell you everything. Nor should I. Now—wait, let me find something I can throw at you without harm.” His eye lit on an old boot one of the Wolfhounds had dragged to the fire to chew on, and picked it up. “All right, out you go.”

Sasha kicked the door open and tumbled out it, looking from outside as if he had been thrown at the door and it had sprung open under the blow. He rolled to his feet and ran off, arms and legs flailing, while his father flung the boot at him.

“Sleep in the pigsty!” the King shouted. “It’s all you’re fit for!”

He had landed out in the main courtyard, beside the stables, and all the boyars were there, mounting their horses to go to the guesthouse outside the Palace walls. There were no guest quarters in the Palace itself; there was only the inner building for the family, and the barracks built into the fortifying walls that surrounded it. In less gracious times, guests would have been housed in the Great Hall, sleeping on the benches and under the tables there. But for at least four generations now, life had been a good deal more gracious than that. There were guesthouses enough to hold up to a hundred important folk, with their servants and guards, and nothing could possibly be wanted from the accommodations. There was even a steam bath attached to each, and from the stink that had come off some of those rancid old men, they could well use it.

The boyars hooted and tossed insults after him. He was laughing as he ran; he used Beast-Speech to call the Wolfhounds to him, so that it looked as if he were being pursued by the pack, when in fact, they were running with him.

He hoped that his father would get the bride that he wanted. But if he didn’t—it would not be because of Sasha; it would be because The Tradition didn’t want that girl married into this family at this time.

In order to keep up the pretense, he had to flail his way past the guesthouses, then through the village, inviting further insults from the peasants. This was why he had called the pack; they would protect him from anything like an actual attack. “Prince Borzoi,” the peasants called him, after the hounds he so often ran with. He’d even been known to sleep with them as a child, in summer, all of them tumbled together in a heap in the kennel. He didn’t do that now, of course….

Though in a way, he missed it. The hounds were just about the only creatures on the Palace grounds that he didn’t have to keep up some form of pretense with.