The Road to Amber (31 page)

Rango rubbed his neck slowly. Politics!

“You are the interpreter as well as the custodian?”

“Yes, though a sufficiently high church official might take issue with my reading.”

“Yes?…”

“…and the phenomenon might be delayed in reporting till the day
after
the Bearers depart—and then the latter interpretation would be more likely, in that would be too late to do much about the former. You have a preference?”

“Yes, I do. Have you a favorite charity?”

“Such things tend to begin at home, do they not?”

“This has always been my observation,” said Ran glancing at a pair of crossed swords which hung upon the wall to his right.

“…and if anything were to happen to me,” Lemml went on, “my successor would note the prognosticatory state of affairs tomorrow, probably read it incorrectly, and certainly report it immediately.”

Rango took a large swallow of his wine, as did the priest.

“It is good that you came to me,” Rango said. “Your visit is a thing both educational and patriotic. Yes, I’ve mind to make a contribution. I assume you have the details with you?”

“Of course.”

From beyond the balcony, through the opened window, they heard the frantic drumbeat commence, followed moments later by the shouted words none could understand. Shortly thereafter, the great thudding footfalls began. Then came a mournful saurian bellow which rattled their goblets on the tray.

In “Arts and Science: The Gar Quithnick Story” by Michael A. Stackpole, the assassin Gar Quithnick foals, the evil Udan Kann paralyzes him and seizes the amulet. Kann does not kill Quithnick because then the ring would vanish and return to Prince Rango, its previous owner. Whether Kann seized the ring for his own purpose or to give it to Kalaran is unclear as the tale ends.

P
rincess Rissa stood on the balcony outside of her room, staring mournfully at the geyser of mud and sulfur that had replaced the clear lake behind the castle, reflecting that sometimes reality was a bit more symbolic than was polite. Perhaps she should have gone with Jancy to return Sombrisio. They would be out in the wastes together, listening to the gripes of the mercenaries and trading dreams about what they would do after everything was right again. Calla Mallanik might tell some tale of elven valor designed to make humans feel subtly inferior and Sombrisio would—

She grimaced as the lake farted mud and filthy water. Sombrisio would love to pull something like that.

“Your Royal Highness!” twittered a voice from behind her. “The dressmaker is here to fit your wedding gown!”

Rissa came indoors with a final wistful look toward the distant Desolation and stepped into her bedchamber.

In the parlor, Daisy, her maid since her return from slavery and adventure, conversed with the seamstress, a slim, angular woman with a pronounced squint. Silvery-haired Daisy was buxom and plump. Together, they reminded the Princess of a needle and pincushion.

As she stripped down to her shift, the Princess eavesdropped on their conversation.

“You don’t say!” Daisy said. “Giant snakes! Winged! Flying!”

“I do say,” the seamstress said. “They’ve been harrying the cattle market two hours since. The Prince’s archers brought one down. It had lovely scales once you could stop worrying about it swallowing you with so much as a by-your-Ieave.”

The Princess stepped into the room and the servants curtsied deeply. Rissa accepted their homage graciously. Part of being a princess, Mama had always said, was being poised even in your underwear.

The seamstress began unwrapping the parcels her assistant carried. There were yards and yards of ivory silk, lengths of hand-tatted lace, and a rattling box of pearls. When the seamstress and Daisy shook the fabric out, Rissa could see that it had begun to take on the form of an elegant, long-trained wedding gown. Her earlier bleak mood gave way to excitement.

When the fitting was finished and the seamstress sent on her way, Rissa put on riding clothes, picked up the elven bow and arrows that Calla had made her, and went looking for Rango. The guards said that the Prince was alone in his privy council chambers and she bustled down, still full of her excitement about the wedding.

“Rango, darling,” she said, sweeping in with a
pro forma
rap on the door, “come hunting with me!”

The Prince looked up from a heap of papers, the flicker of annoyance on his handsome features changing into something warmer, but not precisely welcoming. He rose and kissed her hand.

“Rissa, dearest,” he said. “Hunting? Now, with our coronation and wedding to plan and our country in peril?”

“That peril was what I thought to hunt,” she said, somewhat tartly. “Report is that winged serpents are harrying the cattle merchants. I thought that we could go and bag ourselves one. The skin would make us fine boots and belts.”

“Boots and belts are far from my concern now,” he said, reli¬quishing his grasp on her hand.

“Then what about the morale of our citizens?” she asked. “They await a warrior prince to ascend the throne, but you seem transformed into a clerk!”

“Perhaps a clerk is what peacetime needs, precious,” he said. “If they need martial succor, I shall send one of the Guard units down. They will deal with the serpents.”

Rissa pouted, hating herself for it, but unable to stop. Rango spoke rightly. Her own parents had reigned more with law book and example than with martial valor, but she had not expected Rango to settle down so quickly. When she and Jancy had met him after their departure from Anthurus…

She might have said more, but there was a rap on the chamber door.

“My next meeting, Rissa,” the Prince said, his expression neutral. “I will send a division of the Guard out after the winged serpents.”

Rissa knew a dismissal when she heard one. She left her, barely sparing a glance for the wiry man in priest’s robes who was waiting to enter.

* * *

Lemml Touday looked after the Princess as she departed.

“The Princess seems less than happy,” he observed to Rango.

“The Princess will be more settled after the wedding and coronation,” the Prince replied. “Right now she is still adjusting to her new duties after a trouble-free life of adventure.”

“I heard that the Princess was taken as slave, sold into a brothel, and escaped only by daring a journey across the ghoul-haunted Desolation to the very gates of Anthurus, City of the Dead,” Lemml commented.

“Precisely,” the Prince said. “Days without responsibility except to oneself. Days of immediate gratification and glory. Days without ritual, pomp or protocol. She will settle down when the weight of her new position comes home to her.”

“As it has to you, Your Highness?”

“Indeed. You have a report for me?” The Prince smiled suddenly. “Forgive me, Lemml. I have not yet offered you hospitality. My little interview with Rissa unsettled me. Take a seat by the fire and let me fetch some wine.”

When the Prince uncorked the wine, the liquid frothed in a fashion quite unlike champagne or beer and spilled thick and brown into the goblets. Brow wrinkled, the Prince sniffed the liqueur.

“It is not beer. In fact, it smells curiously sweet.”

Carefully, he sipped, then took a larger swallow.

“Not bad at all. Lemml, I believe that the magical anomalies have spread to my wine cellar. Will you drink? This is certainly a rare beverage.”

“Whatever you drink, my Prince, is fine with me,” the priest replied, tasting the odd brew.

“Shall we get to business?” Prince Rango prompted gently.

“As you wish, sire. I come to report that the Demon of Darkness continues to emerge from the skull of Kalaran. I have interpreted the portent as soothingly as I can, but the High Priest is becoming concerned that we should not have permitted the scroll and the amulet to be taken from Caltus.”

The Prince smiled and sipped his dark, sticky brew.

“What do they expect me to do?” he asked. “They acceded to my councilors’ requests and now the artifacts are gone to their resting places.”

“Some recall that you had communication sorcellets sent with each of the heroes,” Lemml Touday replied, feigning unhappiness at his news. “There is talk of having you recall General Blaid and Gar Quithnick before they can complete their quests.”

“Damn the impertinence!” the Prince snarled. “Do they not see that larger things are at stake than a few portents from an enchanted skull? I would not put it past the wickedness of Kalaran to permeate his skull so that it would give us misleading portents!”

Lemml smiled, “Why, that’s rather nice, Your Highness. I could do something with that, if protest becomes too strong. Of course, I would need to plant my hints very carefully…”

The Prince opened a drawer and pulled out a small, jingling pouch. He handed it to the priest.

“I have been collecting for your favorite charity,” he said, “and have come up with some extra donations. I do not think I can raise extra funds easily again before the coronation. Of course, after the coronation, I will have access to all the treasury. However, if the amulet and scroll are returned, the coronation may be greatly delayed.”

Lemml swallowed the rest of his drink, rose from his chair, and bowed deeply. The pouch vanished into the sleeve of his robe. “I understand, Your Highness. I will do my best for you.”

“Do,” the Prince said, watching him depart, “do.”

“A Very Offensive Weapon” by David Drake tells about the quest to hide the ring Sombrisio. The ring is “offensive” because it insults and curses anyone near it. Sombrisio commands Jancy to cast the ring under a moving mountain, “Throw me now, you brainless cunt!” This solution may not be permanent; the mountain will eventually move on, possibly leaving the ring on the sand for the wandering Mohammed to pick up. Jancy misses the Princess; there are hints of her lesbianism and of what happened during their imprisonment in a brothel before Forever After.

“H
ow
tall are your bridesmaids, m’lady?” the seamstress said in disbelief.

Rissa gestured. “Well, I am quite tall and both are taller than me. I think I have set of Jancy’s togs around here somewhere, and Domino—well, she was Dominik Blaid, so you should have no trouble seeing her tailor. She’s lived here forever, at least when she wasn’t in the field.”

The pinched lines about the seamstress’s eyes grew deeper. They had given the wedding dress a second fitting and it was stunning. Not much was left but the routine stitching on of yards of lace, hundreds of pearls, and hemming the lot—including the thirty-foot train.

Now, with Daisy’s able assistance, they were designing the costumes for the wedding party. It would not be a large group, as royal weddings went. All of Rissa’s family had been slaughtered by Kalaran—as had all of Rango’s. This had settled the difficult problem of coordinating dresses to be worn by the mothers of the bride and groom, but still left plenty of others.

“Dominik Blaid,” the seamstress repeated faintly. “Very good, Your Highness. I believe I had heard something of the sort. If I recall correctly, she is dark and Jancy Gaine is fair?”

“That’s right,” Rissa said. “Is that a difficulty?”

“It does limit our selection of colors. Pink, for example, suits blondes quite well, but it rarely flatters brunettes.”

“I don’t think that Jancy would wear pink,” Rissa said, flinching a bit at the thought. “What about a pale blue?”

“I considered that, but both of the ladies in question are somewhat tan.” The seamstress frowned. “Pale blue might make them look sallow. How about lavender? It is quite regal and would be quite nice given that your coronation is to follow the wedding ceremony.”

Rissa nodded, reflecting as they began to inspect swatches of lavender fabric that it would be nice once the new Royal House was established and had selected its royal colors. Decisions like this would become a matter of the past. No one ever worried about how suitable royal colors were to anyone’s complexion.

Sketching out rough designs for the gowns drove the poor seamstress to distraction. Clothing that would suit full-figured, muscular Jancy would swallow the slimmer, more hard-bodied Domino. Dresses that flattered Domino’s boyish figure would make Jancy look hulking. When she left with initial design notes in hand, the seamstress was muttering prayers to any deity who would listen.

Rissa sent Daisy to see the woman home, promising she could look after herself for a half hour. Although she meant the guild-woman a kindness, she also craved a brief moment of privacy. Daisy tended to mother her, something that Rissa would not have minded from her own nurse. However, that poor lady had been slain when Kalaran’s forces looted her family castle. She had not been young or pretty enough for the slave markets. Indirectly, Nurse had saved Rissa’s life, for she had insisted on dressing the Princess in servant’s clothing. Thus, none of the troops had realized that the Princess had lived, instead of being slaughtered with the rest of her family.

To distract herself from these dark memories, Rissa strolled to the window and counted through the rest of the wedding party. Spotty—Stiller—Gulick was to be best man. She made a mental note to see that his outfit did not clash with red, as he was certain to be flushed and his face might blotch.

Gar Quithnick was to be the second groomsman. She shuddered a bit at the idea of an assassin at her back, chiding herself for her lack of faith. However, he could not be denied his place.

Ibble, Spotty’s dwarven friend, was to be ring bearer, a role given by tradition to one of the shorter races.

That filled out the main party. Various dignitaries, religious authorities, and loyal companions would make up the guest list. The galleries of the Cathedral of Dym would be left open for the public.

Rango had insisted that tickets be sold at a token price so that there would not be mobbing. She understood his reasoning, but thought it somewhat declasse. There was no arguing with his point that the war against Kalaran had drained the Treasury.