The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (24 page)

"You say the father is attainted?"

Hope thrilled in Drustan; he nodded.

"But the son? What of the youngest son?"

Trying even harder to be clear, Drustan said, "He is now Count."

"Did you say that you declare the youngest son to be Count of Tundin?" John asked with great intensity. One corner of Drustan's mouth lifted in a leer intended to be a smile. He nodded.

"Excellent!" John squeezed Drustan's hand with both of his own. "Thus shall you rule still, my father! I shall come to you with all the questions of state, and listen until you have made yourself clear! I shall bear all your commands to your ministers, and see that each is carried out as you would wish it! I shall come to talk to you twice a day, three times a day, as often as it takes—and at least once, at supper, only to enjoy your company!" He shivered. "For you must know, Father, how much afraid I am, without your shield to ward me! How badly I need your presence to give me the strength of will to face your ministers!"

Compassion flowed; for a few minutes Drustan's own fear submerged under concern for his son—the only son left him now! He squeezed John's hand and muttered, "Be brave, lad! I shall be here for you,
Page 121

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ever at your call! How could I desert you, when you do my work?" John smiled, reassured, and gave as good as he got. "Courage, my father! You have beaten many enemies, great enemies— surely now you can defeat one so tiny!" Half an hour later John returned to his own apartments. He closed the door behind him and let out a long sigh, folding in on himself.

"Was it as difficult as all that?" asked a resonant baritone. John snapped upright, remembering the rendezvous he had set. "It went well enough, Niobhyte. It went just as you said it would."

John went to the side table, his steps unsteady, and poured a goblet of wine with hands that trembled from the release of tension. "The spell worked as you said it would—I understood him, but no one else could. How did you persuade the elves to shoot him?"

"There are some things sorcerers must not confide." Niobhyte didn't tell John that the stroke had been as much of a surprise to him as to everyone else. He had been quicker to take advantage of it, though. "Did I not promise you that you would rule within six months of our pact?"

"You did," John acknowledged. "I had not known it would come at the price of a war, though."

"The war would have come in any event," Niobhyte said easily. "Your parents would have made war upon Merovence if not upon one another. As it is, you can blame the elf-shot on the Lord Wizard, and claim he did it to keep Bretanglia from attacking his queen and wife." John's eye gleamed. "Yes, I can see that would serve." He sat in a chair opposite Niobhyte's.

"I regret that your road to power came at the cost of the lives of your brothers, and your father's illness." Niobhyte's expression said that he was anything but sorry.

John waved away the half apology. "Believe me, it scarcely tears at my heart. I would have slain my brothers myself, for all Gaheris' hurts and Brion's arrogance and condescension. As to my father, he has suffered only a fraction of the hurt due him." John's hand tightened on the goblet as he remembered his mother's furious denunciations of mistress after mistress. They must have been true, for his mother had said it.

"I understand." Niobhyte nodded. "Always the youngest, always the smallest. It is only your due if, after all, you rise to rule."

"Yessss." It was more a hiss than a word as John gazed into his cup.

"You rule already," Niobhyte reminded him, "in fact if not in word."

"Yes, I must have the shadow of my father behind me for some few weeks more," John agreed, "until all the barons have accepted my authority. Of course, I will only deliver those of my father's commands that serve my own interests, and if I issue a few orders of which Father knows nothing, who will care?"
Page 122

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"Quite true," Niobhyte agreed. "However, you do indeed need your father for some time yet, if your only power is as his regent."

"True, very true." John's nose wrinkled as though at a foul smell. "Curse Brion for having made his body disappear! If I could prove his death, I could be king in my own right."

"Believe me, he could not have transported his own corpse away from us," Niobhyte told him. "I would suspect the Lord Wizard of Merovence of the deed."

John darted a quick, suspicious look at him. "You blame him for all my troubles, don't you?"

"And with good reason," Niobhyte maintained. "His purpose is to keep Bretanglia too weak and too disorganized to attack Merovence. The more confusion he can create, the less the danger to his wife. No, Highness—Majesty that will be—you must wait until you have consolidated your power over the nobles and the Church before your father can pass to his reward. Whether you are crowned or not, they will rebel against you if they can. Even King Drustan has had to put down rebellions from time to time, though the people love him for making the land safe and prosperous."

"Oh, I shall make it safe and prosperous, too," John purred, gazing into the fire. "I shall make it safe and prosperous indeed—for myself."

Two nights later Matt and his companions found an inn as the sun was setting. As they were about to go in, Matt noticed something. He stopped Sir Orizhan with a hand on the shoulder.

"What troubles you?" the knight asked, then followed the direction of Mart's gaze.

"The bird." Matt pointed.

Looking, his companions saw a big black avian, like a very oversized crow, sitting on a windowsill and peering into the inn.

"It hopes to beg a crust or two, I doubt not," Sir Orizhan said. Sergeant Brock nodded. "It was ever the way of ravens to wait for what was left."

"If you say so," Matt said, with misgivings, and started to follow them in, when the bird turned and fixed him with a bright black bead of an eye. A chill passed through Matt; he felt that he had never seen such malice in a bird's glance, such sheer gloating malevolence and eagerness to pounce. Then the raven turned its attention back to the interior of the inn, and it was only a large black bird again. Slowly, Matt followed his companions into the inn.

They walked into a blast of noise—conversation, laughter, snatches of song, and the clattering of wooden platters. Serving wenches swiveled through the crowd, trays held high. Glasses lifted in toast.

"Quite a party," Matt observed. "What do you think they're celebrating?" Sir Orizhan shrugged. "Life."

"Do you think we will be able to stay the night this time?" Sergeant Brock asked.
Page 123

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"We can only hope," Matt sighed.

"I mean no offense, Lord Wizard," Sir Orizhan said, "but this bauchan of yours is proving to be a most pernicious nuisance."

"Not so loud," Matt hissed. "He might hear, and take it as a compliment." Then, in a more normal voice,

"I'm really sorry about this, guys, but he isn't my bauchan—not willingly, anyway."

"So long as he does not take us for your family, I suppose we will be well enough," Sir Orizhan said. He surveyed the room and shook his head. "We have come late—there is no table empty."

"There is one in the back corner." Sergeant Brock pointed. "There is only the one man at it." The one man in question was hunched over, glowering at his tankard and muttering to himself.

"Not the world's most savory company," Matt said warily, "but it's the only table with any room. Brace yourselves for an unpleasant meal."

"I would say that we should go on to the next village and chance the inn there," Sir Orizhan said, "save that we have already done so, and the darkness is upon us. It may be that you should stop urging us to just one more village, Lord Wizard."

It was getting to be a running argument. "But we're going so slowly as it is," Matt protested. "We run into so many delays."

Sir Orizhan sighed. "Then we shall have to suffer the company of a drunkard."

"Pooh! We'll only listen for the space it takes him to drink three more stoups of ale," Sergeant Brock told him. "Then he'll fall asleep and we'll be rid of his talk."

"Oh, really?" Matt regarded the drunk with a jaundiced eye. "How is he going to get three more stoups?"

"Why, you will buy them for him." Sergeant Brock grinned. "Is it not a small price for peace?"

"I suppose so," Matt sighed, "and money's no problem yet. Gentlemen, be seated." Sir Orizhan sat with him, but Sergeant Brock stared, offended. He started to speak, but caught himself. Matt frowned up at him. "What's the matter? Sit down."

The offense turned into disbelief. "But I am not a gentleman!" Matt felt a surge of guilt as he remembered that no one below the rank of squire counted as a gentleman in this medieval world, and gentlemen did not dine with lower classes outside of common rooms. He started to correct the error, but before he could speak, Sir Orizhan beckoned the man close. "You are my squire for the space of this venture. I raise you to it, and shall make it lasting with all due ceremony if we succeed in our venture."

Conflicting emotions warred in Brock's face for a moment— disbelief, joy, and apprehension. Matt could understand it— peasants were almost never raised to the gentry, and if they didn't succeed, this amazing prize might be snatched away from the sergeant. But he must have remembered that if they didn't
Page 124

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

succeed, they'd probably be dead, because the joy won the skirmish, and he sat down beside Sir Orizhan, bowing his head. "I thank you, Sir Knight. From the depths of my heart."

"You honor me as much as I you," Sir Orizhan said generously.

"Honor!" the drunk across the table snarled. " 'S only a 'scuse for killin'a good onezh!" He lifted his tankard, glare defying them to disagree. "Long live Prince Brion!" The three companions exchanged glances. Then Matt said, "Long life, and we'll drink to it as soon as we get mugs."

A serving wench overheard and swirled by their table. "Would you have ale, sirs?"

"Yes, and meat and bread," Matt told her. "Dinner, in fact."

"As soon as I may," she promised, and whirled away.

"Busy place tonight," Matt commented.

" 'S'a minshtrel," the drunk informed them. "Came in f'r shupper. Landlord fed 'im while he shent boyzh out t' tell ev'yone."

"So the whole village crowded in to be ready to listen by the time the minstrel finishes." Matt nodded.

"Smart businessman." Then he turned to Sir Orizhan. "Does it seem to you there are an awful lot of minstrels running around these days?"

"Far more than I am accustomed to seeing," the knight agreed. "One might almost think them to be troubadours, and us to be in the south."

A man dressed in bright clothes stood up and struck an off-key chord on his lute.

"Or perhaps not," Sir Orizhan amended.

The minstrel tuned a string, then struck the chord again. It was much better, and he nodded in satisfaction.

"Tell us the news ere you sing, minstrel!" one man called, and a chorus of voices took up the cry. "Aye, the news! First, the news!"

"Well, my songs are news enough in themselves," the minstrel said, laughing.

"If they have tunes, that is news indeed," Sir Orizhan muttered.

"Just my luck," Matt sighed, "traveling with a critic."

"Still, I'll tell you the most recent in short sentences," the minstrel went on. "Which will you have first—the bad, or the good?"

"The bad!" a dozen voices cried with relish.

"The worst of it, then, is that King Drustan has fallen ill."
Page 125

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

A furious babble broke out as people asked each other if it could be true, and assured that it could be, wondered about the benefit-to-damage ratio of the results.

When they had quieted, and begun to realize that the damages might well outweigh the benefits, the innkeeper called out, "Then what is the good news, minstrel?"

"The good," the minstrel cried with false heartiness, "is that our loyal Prince John has assumed rule as regent! The king has spoken through his son, and appointed him to care for us all!" The announcement was greeted with stunned silence. The minstrel tried to grin around at them all, but his smile faltered. Then the murmuring began, dark, ugly, and apprehensive.

"I've heard of it," a tinker told his neighbor, much too loudly. No doubt he'd been disgruntled at having to give up the attention of the crowd as news bearer.

"What have you heard?" a woman at another table asked.

"Why," the tinker said in a voice to fill the room, "that there is more to His Majesty's 'illness' than meets the eye."

"How do you mean?" The minstrel's tone was threatening; he didn't like having his thunder stolen, either. The tinker's tone sank to a dramatic whisper—one that carried to most of the room. "There's some as say the queen poisoned him."

"Ridiculoush!" the drunk exploded. "Queen couldn't've! She been in prizhon!" Matt started to edge farther away from the man. So did Sergeant Brock; they converged on Sir Orizhan, who sat across from the drunk.

"Worsht of 'em all, that Zhon!" the drunk grumbled. He glared into his ale, but his voice grew louder and louder. "That Gaherish, he wazh a mean 'un, but wazhn't a puling little coward, at leasht! An' who wazh that blue knight that did in Prinsh Brion, eh? Just a shuit of armor with nothin' in-shide? That'sh bad magic, I tell yuh, bad! Sumthin' really bad, when only the sniveling slug of a grubby little coward'zh left t'ruleush!"

Out of the corner of his eye Matt caught movement. He turned just in time to see the raven fly away from the window-sill. Somehow, it gave him a very bad feeling. He stood up, tugging at Sir Orizhan's shoulder. "Come on. I don't think I want to stay and hear this."