The Summer's King (7 page)

“No!” cries Hazard. “No, surely not! Could he be so cruel?”

“We were pretenders, and you have said that his right was very dear to him. The queen had us brought out secretly by her kedran, her Athron kedran from the time of her exile. It was deep winter upon the plain, and I rode behind Raff Raiz upon a great horse of Mel'Nir, so broad I could hardly straddle it. We came to the Dannermere, and there was Jalmar Raiz in a boat with his elder son Pinga, a greddle-dwarf. We came to Nesbath again, to the Raiz mansion there, and at last I was healed of my royal disease. Jalmar Raiz removed his spell. He made me sleep, and when I woke, my mind was healed. I was plain Nella Down of Denwicktown, stage name Taranelda, from your songs. Oh, Hazard, Jalmar Raiz gave me gold, he knelt before me and humbly begged my forgiveness for what he had done and for the way things had gone wrong. I forgave him; I could not do otherwise. But I still recalled all that I had done as the False Queen. I felt, I still feel . . . dishonored.”

“We have been ill used!” says the poet fiercely.

He struggles from his bed this time, covers his bones with a woollen bedgown and stands embracing the slight, crooked figure. Presently he manages to cross the cabin to the small washroom and to blink from the two portholes at the docks and the sunlit surface of the river Bal. The ship is not tied up to the wharf but moored out in the stream. The sight of so much water makes Hazard lower his eyes.

“There were comforts sent to me in prison,” he says. “Floorboards, most necessary at the second level, and a settle. If the water comes up past the third mark you can crouch on the settle. Blankets were sent; in good weather they dry out completely. You need oil for the skin, goose grease is best but it is dear. Someone sent me a whole pot of goose grease. I wore it on my hands and feet and ate a few dabs of it every day for a year. I was dried out three times and brought up to a room with a brazier where I did some writing for Buckrill.”

“I sent some of those things,” says Taranelda. “I gave all the money I could spare to Buckrill and trusted him to spend it for your good. I had come back to the Tumblers' Yard, of course, and rejoined the company. I play the leading ladies. Goffroy is still the manager. We meant to give you a benefit, but it was not permitted. We petitioned the High Justiciar for your release and managed to wring from the courts a limit of sentence . . . five years.”

“Now I am out in three years,” ponders Hazard. “I begin to wonder why. Am I safe here, dearest? Will I bring you into danger?”

“You are safe on this ship,” says Taranelda. “We will stay aboard while you do this work for Buckrill, then my season will be done as well. I thought we might go into Athron. This ship will travel there. Remember old Polken, who played clowns and went to be an innkeeper in Varda? We might live quite well and cheap with him. You need rest.”

“Athron . . . the magic kingdom,” says Hazard dreamily. “Yes, we would be welcome with old Polly, I am sure. I would not take you from the stage, my dear.. . .”

“You must be cared for!”

Taranelda sighs and begins to weep again, clasping the poet about the waist.

“You are so thin . . . Oh Rob, what will become of us?”

As he comforts her, smoothing her hair with a bony hand, there is a discreet knock upon the cabin door.

“Who's there?” asks Hazard with a trace of fear.

“Mazura!” comes the firm reply.

“The captain,” says Taranelda, smiling, in answer to the poet's questioning look.

“Come in, Captain Mazura!” she calls.

Mazura is a young man, still under thirty, well built and colorfully dressed as befits a merchant adventurer. He wears a long seaman's doublet of crimson broadcloth and a draped cloak of royal blue with a gold border. He has flowing locks of blond hair and blond moustaches. His pleasant face is tanned by the sun; his eyes are slate blue.

“Greetings, Master Hazard,” he says. “You honor my ship!”

“Greetings, captain . . .” begins Hazard.

He breaks off and gives a laugh.

“It must be!” he cries. “Or else my wits are washed away . . .”

“No, Master Hazard,” says the captain, “you know me as Raff Raiz. I have taken my mother's name. This ship is also named for her, the
Caria Rose.”

“A loss to the stage,” says Hazard. “I saw you as a player of royal promise. But tell me, where is your father, Jalmar Raiz?”

“In Achamar, in the service of the queen, Aidris Am Firn,” says Mazura. “He is her healer.”

“He serves the Daindru?”

“No, as I said, he serves only the queen. She values his art enough to overlook all his intrigues. I do not believe that the king, Sharn Am Zor, will have any dealings with him.”

“The king is unforgiving,” say Hazard. “But you, Captain, you have done well. Your merchant enterprise has prospered!”

He indicates the spacious cabin with its gleaming dark wood and polished brass. The effort of his grand gesture is too much; Taranelda and the captain assist him back to the bunk.

“I sailed to the lands below the world,” says Raff Mazura, pouring wine, “and in a distant harbor I learned the culture of the Kaffee plant. You drank kaffee, a potion made from its roasted beans, for your breakfast, Master Hazard, and so does half of Lien for the past two years. We are in the midst of a kaffee boom. I have done well. I own a share of a plantation, and I own two ships.”

There is bumping against the side of the
Caria Rose
.

“That reminds me,” says the Captain. “I came to say that Master Buckrill, the printer, is coming aboard.”

The poet has not heard. He has fallen sound asleep on his pillows.

“Buckrill will have to wait,” says Taranelda softly.

“Do you know what day it is?” asks Mazura, his voice just as low.

“The day of the Dainmut.”

“The Chameln lands and their rulers are at peace,” says Mazura sadly. “In Mel'Nir, on the other hand, the civil war is growing hotter. Val'Nur of the Westmark strives to hold the free zone and the High Plateau.”

“I have had battles enough!” says the actress, still with a touch of royal authority. “Come and let us speak to Buckrill.”

Hazard remains asleep in the darkened cabin, and presently Buckrill comes in bearing a heavy satchel. He sets it down beside the bunk and slumps into a chair screwed to the floor, watching the sleeping poet. At last he can wait no longer; he shakes Hazard, and the poet wakes with a cry.

“Hush, Rob . . .”

Hazard swings upright, blinking, and shakes his shaggy head like a dog coming out of water.

“Thanks,” he says. “I am in your debt, old friend.”

Buckrill waves away the poet's thanks.

“How do you fare?” he asks. “Have you eaten?”

“I am stronger,” says Hazard, “and I will not be put off. I will thank you most heartily for bringing me out and for providing me with all those necessaries while I was sunken in the Wells. You remained true.”

“I did what I could,” acknowledges Buckrill, “but do not think I was the only one.”

“Taranelda has told me. The players . . .”

“The players are loyal comrades,” says the printer in his deep, wheezing tone, “and Taranelda would have given her last groat; but help for prisoners comes very dear. The greater part of your comforts
and
the bribes needed to have them brought in were paid for with gold sent from Achamar, from the king, Sharn Am Zor.”

“From the king?”

The poet smiles and shakes his head.

“I have misjudged our young friend,” he says after a pause.

“He would not have it known,” says Buckrill. “It was all under cover, the letters from Seyl of Hodd.”

“Yet he did not fail me,” says Hazard. “He will make a proper man yet. Goddess knows how he is faring as king.”

“See what I have . . .” says Buckrill mildly.

He lays a few small leather-bound books, and also a larger parchment in Hazard's lap. The poet fingers these offerings, catching his breath; a tear rolls into his beard.

“Great goddess . . . my books . . .”

He turns the pages reverently.

“How often have I dreamed of that place, my old mouse-brown room, high and dry over Ratcatcher's Row, and my shelves of books. Who had my room while I was away?”

“One of the players,” says Buckrill. “The old heavy, Milleray. Ondo Milleray.”

The name does not bring forth any particular reaction from Hazard, who has not heard of Milleray's last service. He is looking through the books. Buckrill has brought along:
The Rose Garden
, a book of verses by Lienish poets,
The Annals of The Falconers
, a famous book of knightly tales from Eildon,
Tales of the Isles
, a book of Chyrian legends done into the common speech and also a Chyrian wordbook. A last book and the parchment sheaf are by Hazard himself:
Verses for the Seasons
and
The Masque of Fools
.

“Chyrian?” asks Hazard. “This work for the Denwicks . . . is it something from the Chyrian?”

Buckrill nods gravely.

“Holy Tree,” says Hazard, “I'm rusty. It is a twisted tongue!”

“Wheesht,” says Buckrill, “hear me out. There's money in it.”

He lays another sheaf of parchment before the poet.

“This is part of what they call in Eildon a troth gift. Do you know what that is?”

“Of course,” says Hazard. “A bunch of poems or pretty addresses sent by a would-be suitor to a lady at the beginning of a courtship. There was a nicely illuminated troth gift in the library at Alldene, for the Markgrafin Guenna, our poor ill used sovereign, from her prince of Eildon, Edgar Pendark.”

“Just so,” continues Buckrill. “These works you see are both old and new, some are done into the common speech, some in the original Chyrian. There are maybe ten or twelve pieces of mixed quality so far as I can see. And it is to be a troth gift for a lady of Eildon of the same family that joined with the house of Vauguens years ago: the Princess Moinagh Pendark. Now this fair maid is a match of which princes dream, and Denwick, the new duke . . .”

“What, is the old man gone at last?”

“For more than a year. This is our own Hal of Denwick, the thirteenth duke, and he will have this lady to wife. For his troth gift, his first embassy to Princess Moinagh, he will send his own garland of poems. He will have some of these Chyrian works done into the common speech . . .”

“Better done than this, I hope,” says Hazard, peering at the sheaf. “This is no more than a rough translation.”

“Of course, of course,” says Buckrill. “And he will have some new works praising the girl or yearning after her or describing the land of Lien. He will pay for the best. He will have it all done by Robillan Hazard.”

Hazard gives the printer a small abstracted smile.

“So you will do it? I may bring word? Will you sing a bond?” asks Buckrill, masking his impatience.

“Yes, yes, I'll do it,” says the poet. “But give me as much time as you can. The duke must know my situation.”

“I can get you fifteen days, no more, no less,” says Buckrill.

“And the money?” asks Hazard.

“One hundred royals in gold,” says Buckrill, grinning.

Hazard whistles softly.

“He'll have his troth gift,” he says.

Buckrill pours them both a stoup of Mazura's excellent wine, and the poet eats some buttered oat cakes along with it.

“And you think this is a bonny Eildon lass?” Buckrill asks cheerfully.

“Hush,” says Hazard with a wink. “You are speaking of the morning star and the daughter of the sea otters . . .”

“Discretion,” says Buckrill. “Secrecy. Eildon loves secrecy. Slip in a few lines on the princess. Rich, of course, with vast estates. Beautiful, so they say. Eighteen years old, gently reared and so on.”

“A bride,” says Hazard softly, “fit for king.”

“What do you mean?” asks Buckrill.

There is a queer light in his eye, but perhaps it is only the sun of early afternoon stealing into the cabin past the drawn curtains.

“As I have said, Denwick will have this troth gift . . .”

“Ah, but who will win the lady? I may just take a copy of these poems and Chyrian conceits, together with your lines concerning the princess, and bring fair Moinagh's name to a more worthy bridegroom.”

“No more of your wild talk!” cries Buckrill, covering his ears. “I hear nothing, I know nothing. I cannot hinder you if you take a copy. I will collect your scripts, have them approved by Denwick, fairly printed, and bound in a jeweled book. This is all my undertaking.”

“I must have an advance!” says Hazard.

“I can see that you are becoming your old self again,” says Buckrill. “I'll be plain with you. The entire sum was a hundred and fifty royals in gold. I paid out fifty to get you from the Wells . . . including a payment to the players who assisted. I will not receive a penny from Denwick until the work is done. Then I will keep ninety. Here I have ten of your remaining sixty. You are lodging free aboard this ship. Guard your advance well.”

“Pens and paper from you . . .”

“Yes, yes,” grumbles Buckrill.

“I am content,” says Hazard.

The bond is signed, and Buckrill tucks it away and pays over the money. So the making of the troth gift is arranged and goes forward almost from that hour. When Taranelda returns to the cabin, Hazard already has the distant look she remembers. His head is full of strange numbers and wild figures of speech from the Chyrian. When she is rowed back to the city with Buckrill for her evening performance at the Tumblers' Yard, Hazard is already sharpening his first bunch of pens and balancing an inkhorn on the edge of his bunk.

Buckrill is pleased to see, in the days that follow, how quickly Hazard regains his health. Freedom, work, Taranelda's love and care restore the poet to something of his former swaggering self. His translations from the Chyrian, in prose and verse, forming “Songs for the Morning Star,” are very fine and of the six or seven original lyrics he appends to them, one at least, “Returning to Balufir in Autumn,” is his best work.