The Unwilling Adventurer (The Unwilling #1) (16 page)

The ruse fell away from the chair and Fred felt the seat beneath and around him transform into its true form. Fred paled and Pat's mouth dropped open; he was the one sitting in the Uncomfortable Chair. Pat's jaw wasn't the only one to drop, and there was a collective gasp from the females. Before the boy could flee the room away from all those staring eyes, one of the older men stepped forward.

"Boy, what is your name?" he asked in a shaking voice.

"F-Fred," he replied.

The old man turned back to his compatriots. "Three cheers for Fred, the Chosen One of the Chair!"

A great cry went up from the other guests and they laid hands on him. He yelped when he was raised on the shoulders of the younger men and paraded above the crowd.

"Ned!" he cried out. The old man leaned against the wall and grinned; Pat stood beside him and pointed to Fred. The boy couldn't hear any words above the shouts of the crowd, but he saw her stomp her foot and turn to him with a helpless look on her face.

The crowd moved; Fred grasped his captors' hands as they paraded him around the room. Chants filled the air expressing their joy for their new-found leader. "Hooray!" hollered the men. "Yay!" yelled the women. The females fawned over him and the men pushed and shoved to shake his hand. In the back of the crowd Fred noticed Percival standing beside Anthony Brighton; both were showed interest toward him, but neither participated in the jovial atmosphere.

The crowd took Fred around the room a few times and through the archway. it was a low archway, and he knocked his head against the door frame. No one noticed his pain; they were too eager to parade the boy before the whole town. The guests aimed their steps toward the castle entrance and the doors were flung open. Fred's eyes widened and he tried to claw his way out of their hands.

Lord Tramadore stepped in front of the marchers and held up his hands. "A moment, ladies and gentlemen! I don't wish to lose my guests to rapture without an inquiry into this matter."

"Pish-posh, Lord Tramadore," one of the men replied. "Let us show the city their new leader."

"That remains to be seen, and kidnapping is still an offense in my city," Lord Tramadore pointedly countered; he was still in charge of the city. "Now surrender the boy to me and return to your food. If you'd rather harass him or abandon the meal, then you're free to leave." At a signal from Tramadore several of his guards circled the guests. The peoples' enthusiasm died at the points of the guards' weapons.

The crowd lowered Fred to the floor and he rushed over behind Tramadore. The lord glanced over the crowd. "Now will you rejoin me for dinner or leave?"

The people shuffled from leg to leg, and looked to one another. A voice sprang up from amongst their number. "We should tell the whole city!" That inspired movement from them, and they stampeded out of the castle in their bid to be the first to inform their friends and neighbors of the miracle. Tramadore grabbed Fred and dove out of their way. The guests were all gone in a moment save for Percival and Brighton. Pat hurried up to Fred and checked him over; Ned was close behind her.

Tramadore shook his head. "I had no idea I had invited such wild animals," he halfheartedly joked.

"Gossip fever is a very contagious disease," Ned pointed out.

"Yes, and let us hope their fellow citizens aren't so prone to such a burning outburst," Tramadore countered.

CHAPTER 16

The next morning the city was aflame with the news of Fred's conquering of the legendary chair of uncomfortableness. Rumors and gossip ran their course, distorting facts and creating confusion among the people. The only consistency was the knowledge that someone inside the castle had sat in the chair. A pair of familiar men, Lord Sturgeon and Anthony Brighton, sat on one of Sturgeon's balconies and watched the people dancing in the streets. The festival ended yesterday, but the news of the chair extended the merriment.

Lord Brighton poured himself a drink and looked down at the crowds. "You really think this boy's the legendary great man?" he asked his compatriot.

"I don't know, and that doesn't matter. What matters is that they do." Sturgeon nodded at the crowds beneath them. "Even if he isn't, they're going to make him so."

"So you don't believe this nonsense about the boy leading us to a great change?" Brighton wondered.

Sturgeon picked up his drink and swirled it around; there was a small smile on his lips. "You evidently believe the tale isn't true."

Brighton wiggled in his chair and his lips pursed together. "Well, it's not to say it's all a fake. The chair certainly had its curse, but for this boy to be a great leader?" He shook his head. "I just don't see that happening."

"Perhaps you're right, perhaps this boy isn't the great leader foretold in the tale," Sturgeon mused. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, and he frowned. "You're late. I expect better from you."

His words were meant for a dark figure in the shadowy corner of the balcony. The person stepped forward and bowed; it was Deadly Sins the assassin. "My apologies. The guards have been tripled since the news."

Sturgeon turned sharply to the man. "I don't care if the guards have increased tenfold, you're to be here when I command you to be here." The assassin merely bowed again. Sturgeon sighed, "Have you at least taken care of the assignment I gave you?"

"Yes, sir. The way is prepared," Sins replied.

Lord Sturgeon noticed his hired help was stiff, more so than usual. "What is it?"

"I would rather take care of them myself, sir. They will be defenseless without their staffs, and easily dealt with."

The lord scoffed at Sins' plea. "Haven't you complicated things enough by going after that boy?" The assassin bowed his head, and Sturgeon sighed. "Your methods are effective, but not invisible. According to my spies Tramadore already suspects you are in my employ, and if he found them dead by your hand he would have me executed."

Lord Brighton, not at all surprised by the presence of the assassin, glanced between the two. "What is this? Another of your enemies taken care of?"

Sturgeon smiled over his glass. "Not yet."

At the same time their conversation occurred, mobs crowded around the front of the closed castle gates. They wished to see their new hero, their new leader, and chanted the boy's name.

"Freud! Freud! Freud!" were their cries.

Fred sat in his bedroom at the edge of the bed and winced at every mispronunciation. At his side was a bag of letters written by the people of the city; they were filled with pleas and demands, dreams and wishes. The citizens presumed him to be a gift giver of a fantastically magical nature when he was just a boy who sat his derriere on a cursed chair. He felt overwhelmed by their blind hope and affection for him, and that cast a gloom over his spirits.

Fred's bedroom door flung open and Ned stood on the threshold. "Good morning, Freud," he cheerfully greeted the boy. Fred cast a dirty look at the old man; this was all his fault. He'd tricked him into moving into that chair. Ned shut the door behind himself and ventured over to the window. "A fine crowd of admirers, wouldn't you say? Very enthusiastic. Lord Tramadore has been kind enough to put more guards around the castle to protect you from your admiring fans."

"I don't care about any of that. I'd rather that they were gone," Fred glumly replied.

"Come, come, that's no way for a new leader to talk," Ned scolded. Fred bent over and clutched his head in his hands. Ned's twinkling eyes lost their sparkle and his face softened. "There, there, lad. Things aren't as bad as that."

"No, they're worse," Fred replied. "Now I have to follow that stupid legend, don't I? The one about being a leader or something. I'm supposed to bring about change, but I don't even know where to start." Ned heard the boy sniffle. "I don't want to do any of this. I just want out of here."

Ned took a seat beside him on the bed, and looked the boy over. "None of this tempts you? The opportunity to choose the fate of other men, to lead them on to greatness?" Fred shook his head. "What are you looking for?"

Fred raised his head and his blurry eyes looked straight ahead. "I don't know. I thought I wanted to stay here and be a blacksmith or something like that, but I guess that can't happen now, can it?" Ned shook his head. "Did you mean to do this? To make me miserable like this?"

Ned sighed and listened for a moment to the chanting outside. "The best laid plans are often the ones that go most awry," he admitted.

"How'd you know this was going to work at all? That I was going to be able to sit in the chair?"

"To be honest I wasn't sure it would work, but it would have made a good trick if it hadn't," Ned sheepishly replied. His eyes fell on the stick nestled against Fred's waist, and his mood switched from amused to melancholy. "Change is in the air. My old bones can feel it, and that staff you have there proves it."

Fred pulled it out and examined the weathered leather and sharp edges of the broken parts. "This thing's that important?" he asked the old man.

Ned shrugged. "I've always held it to be, but it has special meaning for me."

"Because of Cedric?" Fred guessed.

Ned jolted back and his lips pursed together. "Then Tramadore told you about him?" Fred nodded. "How much?"

"That he used to own this stick and he was good friends with you two," the boy replied.

Ned's stiff shoulders relaxed, and a sad smile graced his lips. "I see. Yes, because it was Cedric's I attach great meaning to its actions. It's lain dormant for almost fifteen years, and I believe it's awakening now is no coincidence."

Fred paled. "So there's something coming?"

"I believe so," Ned answered.

"And because I sat in some old chair I'm the one who's supposed to deal with it?"

Ned stared straight ahead and pulled at his beard. "Did Tramadore tell you about Cedric's health?"

Fred frowned at the change in subject, but answered the question. "The lord said that he wasn't very strong and died young," Fred told him.

"Yes, that he was, and because of that he spent most of his time studying books. He came upon a private journal written by one of Tramadore's ancestors, the first to receive the chair, if I recall correctly. The lord wrote down the legend that came with the chair, and it was a little different than the one the people retell now."

Fred's eyes widened; hope rose within him at a way out of this mess. "Different? Different how?"

"A great change would come when a person came who was able to sit comfortably on the chair," Ned told him. The old man chuckled. "The story changed with the passing of the legend over the years, much like your name changed in a single night. After so many years people started ascribing the person to the change, and confused them for the same thing." He pulled at his beard and smiled. "Tramadore was much put out that the chair didn't have more importance than being a bellwether for change."

The boy clenched tightly to his stick, and his hands quivered. "You mean I don't have to do the changing? Somebody else gets to do all these things people want me to do?"

"That is how I would understand it, yes," Ned replied. "You're merely the catalyst, the standard-bearer who heralds in the change."

Fred's face lit up with joy and he impulsively threw himself at Ned. Ned oomphed when the boy's arms wrapped around him in a bone-crushing hug. Fred realized what he was doing and quickly released Ned. The old man chuckled. "You're very welcome, my lad."

Fred jumped up and paced the room; his hands were so animated Ned ducked whenever the stick was waved in his direction. "I don't have to do anything! I can just tell Lord Tramadore the older legend and then they'll-" Fred froze and slowly turned to the window. The chants from outside was loud enough to shake the air, and the crowd was only increasing. He looked over to Ned, and his voice came out in a squeak. "How am I supposed to tell them that I'm not the one? What if they don't believe me?"

"Very simple," Ned replied as he stood up. "You don't tell them a thing and leave the diplomacy to Lord Tramadore."

Fred frowned. "How is that going to work?"

"I'm sure Lord Tramadore could show us some escape tunnels through the mountain. We're certainly in need of an escape," Ned quipped.

"We?" Fred repeated.

Ned pulled on his beard and glanced about the room. "Yes, we. I think it's time for a change of scenery. Gloom and responsibility fills these halls, and that wets a man's appetite for adventure." He looked over and winked at Fred. "What say we head out for more fun?"

For all the trouble Ned had caused him, Fred was glad to know he wouldn't be a lone. A smile slipped onto Fred's face, but disappeared just as quickly. He glanced over to the wall that separated his room from Ned's. "What about Pat? She doesn't want me around," he pointed out.

The old man had a twinkle in his eyes that was full of mischief. "I believe I have the perfect reason to persuade her otherwise."

"We are not taking him with us just so he can avoid his adoring fans!" Pat snapped at Ned.