Sagaria (21 page)

King Fungfari I, Emperor of the Known World – at least according to the archaic title that he had resurrected for himself – sat in the sumptuous room he called his study, feeling vexed in a very regal manner. This meant he could let everyone in sight know, in no uncertain terms, that he was furious about the situation but didn’t have to expend any energy trying to think of a solution. His courtiers and counselors were wisely cowering as far out of sight as possible, approaching his study only in response to a direct summons. Such summonses came with depressing frequency so that Fungfari could feel better by yelling vicious insults at someone for a while. After he was done with them, the unfortunate courtier whose turn it had been would creep away ashen-faced and trembling. Already today, two had to be restrained from throwing themselves into the palace moat.

The source of King Fungfari’s seemingly limitless wrath was a message he’d received at dawn. The messenger had been bone-weary and filthy from his long and frantic ride, and his foam-flecked horse had taken three turns around the courtyard before dropping stone dead beneath him. Even so, the man had been sufficiently infused with the urgency of his mission that he’d demanded in a great hoarse shout to be taken at once to the monarch. As soon as he’d delivered the folded package, sealed as it was by a hard red wax impression of the Royal Seal of Spectram, his eyes had rolled upward and he’d collapsed on the study floor.

Inconsiderate of him
, Fungfari ruminated now for the hundredth time. The unconscious messenger had been hauled off by a party of attendants, but in his mind’s eye, Fungfari could still see the sprawled form. It offended his sensibilities. It made the place seem untidy, somehow.

He’d ignored the message from Queen Mirabella as long as he could, but his Chancellor had eventually plucked up the courage to insist that a missive that
had been carried so urgently should be opened likewise. The Chancellor – one Hartleberry Spratpole, so far as the King could recall – was now incarcerated in a very deep dungeon, but Fungfari had reluctantly accepted the wisdom of the man’s words.

The letter was written in Queen Mirabella’s flowingly cursive script, and it wasted no time in getting to the point.

Dear Fungfari
[it read]

The thing we have all feared for so many years has finally, I believe, happened. The gateway from the Shadow World has been forced open, and its denizens have begun pressing their way into our realm. They are led by a tyrant of whom we know only as a rogue wizard called Arkanamon, who once studied with the Elemental Orders at Qarnapheeran. Those who serve him, trembling in his thrall, call him the Shadow Master. He is possessed of an evil magic more powerful than any we have ever known before.

He and his armies have set their sights first on Spectram, that being the nation closest to their point of entry into this world. But they will not be satisfied until all of fair Sagaria is writhing under their iron heel – or until they themselves have been vanquished and driven back to the fell domain whence they have come. Today, Spectram in peril; tomorrow, it will be Mattani
.

So I beseech you, my dear friend Fungfari
[the “friend” bit was something of a lie, mused the king. The last time he’d seen Queen Mirabella, at some state function or other, she’d slapped his face for making an improper suggestion],
to form an army of your fellow countryfolk and lead it to my kingdom, so that we might strive alongside each other to defeat this cruel invader. It would be so good to see your manly features again
[here, Queen Mirabella’s handwriting grew rather spiky and her pen had dug deep into the parchment, as if she’d found it hard to write the words; but Fungfari hadn’t noticed this]
and to be your companion-in-arms.

Please do not delay, dearest Fungfari, for the hazard is a pressing one. The sooner we strike back the easier it will be to prevail!

Your sincerest admirer

(Queen) Mirabella

King Fungfari gave his thousandth deep sigh of the day. This was not the sort of thing he wanted to happen, not at all – to find himself dragged into the middle of other people’s problems. Had Mirabella no more consideration for his feelings than her messenger had shown, fainting away right on one of Fungfari’s best carpets? Who was this Shadow Master character anyway, and why should he show the remotest interest in Mattani? Spectram was broad and Spectram
was wealthy, which meant that Spectram was well worth the conquering – but Mattani? Mattani was deliberately modest in its aspirations, and under the rule of himself, Fungfari I, had purposefully kept its nose clear of the affairs of others. Some might refer to it as a backward, depressed little rathole (he’d heard the cacklings of the ignorant, even though he’d pretended not to) but what Mattani really was was sensible, and that was because it had a sensible monarch – to wit, himself. There was surely every chance  that the Shadow Master would ignore Mattani entirely, that he wouldn’t even notice it.

Yes
, Fungfari decided with a final rueful mental image of the queen’s exquisite beauty,
that’s the best course of action. To keep our heads down and do nothing
.

The pestilential problem with this decision was that decades ago, his father had signed treaties of alliance with Mirabella’s father to the effect that the two nations would support each other in times of threat. Still, that shouldn’t be an insuperable difficulty. It had been Fungfari’s father who’d signed those treaties, not Fungfari. He could set his courtiers to work constructing a completely fresh interpretation of the contract’s wording such that the meaning of the agreement was that Mattani should do nothing whatsoever to alleviate Spectram’s distress. Or, if that failed, he could just pretend he’d lost the documents entirely. The palace was a very big place, after all, and the treaties could easily have been mislaid in one of its innumerable dusty, little-visited attics.

Either way, he wasn’t going to be trapped into leading his troops to battle. He wasn’t even going to send them off to Spectram while remaining safely here at home, because what would happen then if the Shadow Master did somehow notice Mattani? In that event, Fungfari wanted as many defending troops around him as he could muster.

Hm. Maybe it’s time I lowered the age of conscription
, he thought. Again.

His swirling thoughts were scattered by a knock at the door. He stared at the shaking oak in disbelief. It had been hard enough to get any of his courtiers to come here under direct command, and now one was doing so voluntarily.

“Enter,” he bellowed in his most kingly voice.

The guard who appeared was one of the youngest at the palace. From the whiteness of the knuckles on the hand that clutched his halberd and from the trembling of his chin, it wasn’t hard to guess that his older and tougher comrades had “volunteered” to interrupt the King. Fungfari didn’t guess that, of course; he just thought the man was a suicidal maniac.

“Speak, man, before you find yourself joining Hartleberry Spratpole.”

“Um, Your Majesty—”

“Yes? Yes? Get on with it.”

“It’s your—”

“Don’t dither, man.”

“It’s your elder daughter, Your Majesty—”

“Which one’s that?” blustered the King. So he had daughters, did he? More than one, by the sound of it.

“Er, the elder one, sire—”

“Ah yes, good. Glad you cleared that up. Ever thought of a career in my army?”

“Um, yes, sire. It’s your elder daughter, Perima. She’s back.”

“Back?”

“You’ll recall, sire, that she went missing. Everyone assumed that she’d run away and might never be heard from again. Your Chancellor ordered a search but—”

“Ridiculous waste of time. But she’s come back anyway, you say?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then why didn’t you say so before, man?”

“Ah …”

“Dismissed.” Fungfari waved a jewel-bedecked hand.

“There’s more, sire.”

“More missing daughters?”

“Not that, sire. She has brought companions with her.”

“Companions? How dare she?”

The young guard took a deep breath so that the next words came out in a rush.

“She’s returned accompanied by a boy dressed in clothing such as we’ve never seen before, a man-sized frog clad in the most raffish attire imaginable, and a creature that looks rather like a very big mouse but hasn’t got a tail. A talking mouse, sire. The giant frog talks too.”

“Monstrous frogs, eh? You don’t get too many of those to the dozen, do you?” The king rubbed his forehead with the ball of his palm.

“No, sire.”

“Don’t contradict me!”

“No—as you command, sire.”

“You’ve not been sampling the palace rum supplies, have you?”

“No—hardly to speak of, Your Majesty. Just enough to give me the courage to—”

“No matter,” said Fungfari with another desultory wave of his imperial hand. “I suppose I shall have to come down to the reception hall to view my
daughter – what did you say her name was? – and this collection of assorted oddities. You may go.”

“The boy says he comes from anoth—”

“OUT!”

A few minutes later – quite a few minutes, in fact, because he had to decide which of his robes of state made him look the most splendiferous – King Fungfari I descended the magnificently curving marble stairs that led to the palace’s Hall of Reception. He paused a few steps from the top and observed the motley gathering of travelers that stood in the center of the mosaic-floored chamber, surrounded on every side by grim-faced armed guards. The newcomers didn’t look threatening, but one could never be sure.

What they
did
look was bizarre; the man who’d come to his study had been right about that. The girl in the bedraggled white frock seemed vaguely familiar to him – perhaps she was one of the servants? – but the others were noteworthy for their absolute strangeness. The gaily apparelled monstrous frog was the most remarkable. He seemed to be talking affably to the guard nearest to him, who was determinedly not talking back. The boy was a curious fellow too. It wasn’t anything to do with his physical features, though Fungfari decided, looking at him, that these had an unpleasantness all their own. It was the way he was clothed. His long trousers, as grimy as the girl’s dress, were made of some woven blue fabric that Fungfari didn’t recognize and was certain it was completely unknown anywhere in Sagaria. But the covering of the boy’s upper half was definitely bizarre. Under some type of jacket made of a dark, faintly lustrous material and covered in pockets, buttons, flaps, seemingly unnecessary drawstrings and two silver lines snaking up the two open edges, the lad had a bright red garment with words printed on it. Fungfari squinted as he attempted to make out these words. The nearest he could come to was “Grateful Dead.”

Grateful Dead? What in the world could that mean? That the youth was dead, and glad of it? As well he might be, since he was still walking around. Or, that he would be grateful to
be
dead? If that were the case, King

Fungfari could easily help him attain his desire at the gore-stained chopping block in the palace courtyard. Fungfari froze as another possible meaning occurred to him. Could it be that the boy was expressing the opinion that he’d be grateful if Fungfari were dead? It was a dreadful concept. Kings of Mattani did not die,
Fungfari
was pretty certain of that. From time to time they “passed on” or “ascended to a
better place” (admittedly sometimes in the past the ascent had been assisted), but dying was something that happened to other folk, especially commoners. The king contemplated the execution block once more. It hadn’t been used in quite a long while. Long enough, in fact, that there was every chance that some officious housemaid or other had tidied it away – which meant  that the chances of ever finding it again were absolutely zero. Besides, the executioner, his ax idle for so many years, had reportedly turned to drink and was no more able than an infant to aim it at someone’s neck.

Why, anyway, would this callow youth want someone so grand as King Fungfari I to be dead? The notion was preposterous. The monarch smiled to himself and resumed his majestic downward progress, his long purple robe swishing satisfyingly on the stairs behind him.