The Whisperer (2 page)

‘Well, my dear, because not just I—but many of Drestonia’s thinkers—believe that Janko has dreams of kingship.’

‘Rubbish!’ Madam Tyren had countered. And other heads had nodded. ‘The man’s a hero. He’s been securing our northern borders for years. He should have statues carved in his likeness, festivals pronounced in his honour,’ she had carried on.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Tyren had murmured sagely, taking a long suck on his babble pipe and allowing the smoke to drift slowly from the corner of his mouth. ‘But I still think he fancies himself as ruler, not just general of our army and servant to the King.’

‘But the King has an heir now. Janko has to accept that the boy is next in line,’ someone had commented.

‘Acknowledge perhaps,’ Tyren had said quietly, ‘but not necessarily accept. The son is now, what, around thirteen summers? They didn’t expect him to live past his second. You’ll recall whenever we passed through the capital we heard stories that he was a sickly infant, not that I’ve ever seen him. Have you?’

People around the fire shook their heads.

Tyren continued. ‘What’s more, we never saw the Queen during her pregnancy. We never saw the lad when he was born. They’ve been so careful with that boy.’

‘We haven’t been to Floris in many years, Tyren. He could be a strapping lad by now,’ his wife had said, reaching for the still-warm lekka biscuits, spiced with cinnamon. ‘Besides, we did hear that her majesty’s confinement was touch and go. They didn’t want to risk the child. The physicians thought it better to keep her still and not allow her out and about.’

Tyren gave a sound of disgust. ‘It’s all a bit strange if you ask me.’

‘Oh, hush,’ his wife admonished. ‘We know the boy is hale and healthy now—it’s half the reason we’re appearing in the capital, isn’t it? To celebrate his birthday?’

Tyren grunted. ‘Well, if he’s all grown up then it’s all the more reason for Janko to hate him.’

‘There’s a darkness in his soul,’ Blind Pippin had added, even though he hadn’t been part of the conversation. ‘I sense it whenever we’re in the north, I can feel that man’s shadowy presence.’

Madam Tyren had snorted her disgust at this and several others around the fire had clearly agreed. They all accepted Pippin’s ‘visions’ as his act and were quite happy to go along with it, as long as he was earning money for the Travelling Show’s coffers. But it seemed they didn’t appreciate Blind Pippin continuing his act outside the tent.

But Griffin had stored away the blind old man’s insights and paid careful attention to Master Tyren’s warning. He himself had never even had Duke Janko’s shadow cross his path, so he didn’t consider himself a judge of the man. But the stories of his ferocious battle skills and courage were legendary in Drestonia. Griff wasn’t sure he needed to meet any royalty anyway. He was happy with the simple life on the road, although he missed home deeply. Griff always dismissed thoughts of home before they took hold and could upset him. It was best to forget the past, banish the memory of his father’s sorrowful face when they had left him and to simply look forward—to try his utmost to enjoy this new life travelling the realm.

Tomorrow evening the performances at Tarrymonger would take place. Newcomers to Master Tyren’s shows were never sure what to expect. This was not a circus, nor was it a fairground. The Marvels of Nature were essentially the curious oddities of life that people rarely got to view. He wondered about Tyren’s new act that he was to help with and got a hurry on, keen to please the showmaster and secure their bargain, because the absolute last thing on Earth Griff wanted was for his secret to get out.

Lute watched his mother’s skirts billow in a circle as she swung around at her husband’s suggestion. He had always enjoyed the rustle and swish of her silks and taffetas. It was the sound he associated with his beautiful mother, the Queen. He hadn’t taken much active interest in the politics of the realm but he liked to listen to his parents and, as Pilo had counselled, the less he spoke and the more he listened, the more he learned. He bit silently into the juicy pinky orange flesh of the garalba, its sweet fresh flavour exploding into his mouth.

‘A hero’s welcome?’ Queen Miralda said, eyebrows arching with surprise.

Lute glanced towards his father, who shrugged. ‘Why not?’

The recently turned thirteen-year-old watched the Queen join the King at the window of the King’s private salon. They both looked out across the city. Lute wondered if they’d forgotten he was there, curled up on a soft chair. Unlikely, he decided, but he had worked out long ago that to be still and relatively quiet meant that he could linger longer among the adults.

He knew the scene that his parents looked down upon very well indeed, having stared out of the same window every day since he was old enough to stand. He loved his father’s private salon and didn’t need to join his parents to know that right now they had a wonderful vantage from on high and could look
straight down the long, wide street all the way to the grand royal fountain a full mile away. He also knew that, at this moment, that street was lined either side with crowds of Florians, eager to glimpse their brave general—Lute’s uncle—and his triumphant return to the capital.

‘It’s the least I can do under the circumstances,’ King Rodin added, putting his arm around his wife. ‘Janko is a hero. He’s quashed every rebellion that the mountain horde has thrown at us. They may not fear our army, testing it at every turn, but they fear Janko and his reprisals.’

‘Are you sure his brutality is always the answer?’ Miralda questioned gently, leaning against the King’s broad shoulder.

‘Diplomacy has failed me, my love. That old rogue, King Besler, clearly has nothing better to do with his time than sacrifice his young men in pointless war with us. Janko’s got every pass through the mountains covered. Besler should have taken my offer last time. It was a good bargain for his people. Now he makes a bitter enemy of us.’

‘But Janko’s so ruthless, Rodin. Why does he have to fling healthy young men off the mountains, for instance?’

Lute’s attention was riveted. Suddenly the fruit and his vague thoughts held little interest in comparison to what his parents were discussing. He began to believe that maybe this time they had forgotten his presence, to be talking this openly.

‘He has to kill them, my love, because those young men want to see me dead. They want to overrun our realm and claim Floris as their own. It’s us or them.’

Miralda sighed, turned her head slightly and now Lute knew she stared out across the magnificent lush gardens of the palace and further—to the fountains where dragons spouted water in which the children of Floris loved to play. ‘But what if it were our son, Rodin? What if it were Lute? Could you condone such murder, then? It’s your mercy that people will remember your reign for, not Janko your henchman and his cruel lessons. I’m just so glad that our land permits a child—blood kin or otherwise—to be lawfully deemed your heir.’

Lute was now convinced. They
had
overlooked that he was in the room, although he had always known of his mother’s displeasure of Janko as an heir. Perhaps his parents should have had several children, or even adopted them, because the realm permitted any named child of the sovereign to be considered an heir to the throne. He felt suddenly embarrassed, rose from the chair he’d been reclining in and tiptoed across the salon. He glanced behind and was pleased to see they had not noticed him. He stood at the room’s entrance in two minds, not wanting to intrude but too curious now to leave the conversation entirely. On an impulse, he hid in the hallway but peeped from behind the doorway.

He watched his father kiss his mother’s hair and knew how sweetly it smelled. ‘Lute is thirteen summers, Miralda. I think you worry too much over that boy.’ The King stole a glance behind him, as though checking no-one was listening.

His mother’s face creased into a frown. ‘You know why I am so protective, Rodin.’

‘Of course I do. Lute’s situation is made all the more fragile because of our secret.’

It was Lute’s turn to frown. His mother covered her husband’s mouth with her hand. ‘Hush, Rodin. We agreed never to speak of it openly.’

The King sighed. ‘I just want to assure you that I do understand, no matter how distant I seem sometimes, and that he will not be involved in war, I promise.’

Lute bit his lip as he considered what his father had just said. What could he have meant about Lute being fragile? And a secret? What secret? His mother’s response dragged his attention back.

‘And in a few years Lute will be sixteen summers, the very age of the young men that Janko considers it’s perfectly fine to execute in such barbaric style.’

‘They are soldiers.’

‘They are boys!’ she beseeched. ‘When Lute comes of age—and that’s only one more summer away—he will become an
honorary member of our army. His head’s already full of weaponry and combat.’

‘Like any boy,’ Rodin reminded her. ‘I’m glad he’s a strong youth now.’

Lute’s frown deepened to hear his father admit his early frailty.

‘Lute
was
fragile, but that’s all changed now.’ Rodin nodded his agreement as Miralda continued. ‘He considers himself invincible.’

‘I’m proud of him.’

Lute felt a spike of pleasure to learn this.

‘But he is technically a soldier of your army from next summer,’ his mother countered. ‘And say he were to be captured by your enemy, you would expect him to be ransomed, am I right?’

‘It’s the honourable way. It’s how all royals are treated.’

‘Well, don’t be too sure of Janko. If Besler captures him, I hope you don’t expect any compassion.’

‘It’s not compassion, Miralda, it’s just how it’s done. No royalty is squandered. Captors simply make money from royal captives, and I would pay anything they asked for Lute—does that reassure you?’

‘No. Because he is still just a young man. You’re missing my point. He’s no different to any other boy who is being flung off those escarpments. We have to remember that although Besler is our enemy, his men are simply following their king’s orders.’

Rodin sighed. ‘We could argue this all day—it is a matter of principle. There is no right or wrong. It’s just how war is handled, my love.’

Lute watched his mother round on his father and grab his shoulders. ‘But you can change it,’ she begged. ‘You can order Janko…’

‘No!’ The King shook his head. ‘He is in charge of our army and our security. Believe me, you would not enjoy life if Besler was the emperor he dreams of being.’

‘And you’re comfortable about Stalkers roaming the realm? They were Janko’s idea as well.’

‘They’re our domestic law enforcers.’

Miralda gave him an arched look. ‘They follow their own law, Rodin. You yourself have said that you don’t like them having so much freedom. You said you’d talk to him.’

‘And I will! Now, Miralda, this is state business and I will raise it with my brother when I see him. No, I don’t like the Stalkers having so much freedom but when they were initiated they had a strict purpose. Janko had good reason to ensure we had some sort of domestic law enforcement. I suspect with him away, their leader has probably allowed his own enthusiasm to take control.’

‘Then order them to stand down, Rodin! You’re King!’

‘I will not usurp my brother’s role. Miralda, we are very close in age, Janko and I. But for a year or so he would have been King. I am sensitive to this. We complement each other well. The Stalkers originated through good sense and it was a clever idea of Janko’s. It’s all part of our realm’s progress. It is his duty, his responsibility to rein them back in if they’re not following his strict orders. I don’t feel it’s right for me to step across his area of supervision, which is the security of our realm.’

‘They are bullies, Rodin. That’s what I’m hearing anyway.’

‘And I’m sure everything you hear is very reliable, Miralda,’ Rodin replied, unable to fully disguise his sarcasm. ‘Let it be. I will discuss the Stalkers with Janko at the right time in the right setting. The day of his homecoming after years of being away at war is not that time.’

The Queen gave Rodin a sad look and pulled away from him.

‘Don’t be like this,’ the King cajoled gently. ‘He’s coming home today. I’d like us to welcome him together. We are family, after all.’

‘He is your family, Rodin. Not mine, not in my heart anyway,’ the Queen said bitterly. ‘But I shall be at your side as you wish.’

‘Make sure Lute is present also,’ the King said, running out of patience. There was no mistaking his tone.

‘Janko does not like Lute.’

At this admission Lute’s eyes narrowed. He’d had no idea that his uncle didn’t like him. He had forgotten about the hunting incident but he felt sure the Duke had caused the horse to bolt. As if she could hear his thoughts, Miralda added: ‘Did you not notice how rough Janko was with Lute when he was really young? He was barely out of infancy but he was left bruised and screaming you may recall, although your brother claimed he’d just been playing with him.’ Miralda gave a loud snort of disgust. ‘I’m not sure Lute remembers but he certainly didn’t go near Janko for the rest of his visit.’

‘But Janko doesn’t understand children, not being a father,’ said Rodin, moving away from the window.

‘But there’s more to this,’ Miralda said, tartly. ‘You’ve forgotten the hunting accident.’

Lute watched the King purse his lips before he spoke again. ‘Lute doesn’t know his uncle very well at all. This is an opportunity for them to get closer. You three are all I have. I’d like to think we can all get on.’

Miralda switched topics. Lute knew his mother tended to do this whenever she felt beaten in any discussion. She flicked at some lint on her clothes as she spoke casually. ‘I’d hoped we’d have discussed the betrothal to the young Lady Ara by now.’

‘Yes, forgive me, I have not paid it sufficient attention but you know I have had war on my mind.’

Miralda persisted. ‘You know why I want that marriage promise sealed. Lute and Ara are very suited. It is especially comforting to me that they like each other so much. We have only one son. I want him to be happy but I also want his line to the throne secure. A betrothal helps.’

Betrothal? Marriage! Ugh
, Lute thought, that was the last thing he wanted to listen to them talk about. He had liked Ara very much on the two occasions they’d met, but he had plenty to do before he wanted his mother pushing him into marrying the young princess of a distant realm. He wondered why the Queen
was so insistent but his query was answered immediately by his father.

‘Because it threatens Janko with heirs, you mean?’

Miralda looked abashed. Lute knew his father was right, just by the expression on his mother’s face. Still she pressed ahead. ‘It secures the line, Rodin—the
right
line.’

The King nodded. ‘Just make sure Lute is there to greet his uncle with all the other noble well-wishers.’

Lute pursed his lips. He had different ideas.

The atmosphere on the streets of Floris was akin to a festival. King Rodin had already declared it a public holiday and ordered Crown coffers to provide a quart of ale for each adult and the palace had organised vast amounts of food to be cooked in all the local inns and eating houses at its expense. None of Rodin’s people would go hungry tonight in this city. The revellers were already in high spirits and people lined the main thoroughfare leading to the palace and waved purple and green squares of fabric—the royal colours.

Lute, entranced by the festivity, had been careful to grab a couple of the linen squares that were freely available to the cityfolk; there was no doubt that his father was making the long-awaited return of the Duke as triumphant and as splendid as possible.

Getting out of the palace had been easier than he’d anticipated. Guilt-ridden that he’d stolen a jacket from one of the stableboys, he’d left a silver frenk in its place to more than cover the loss. It was his best intention to return it surreptitiously but in case he couldn’t, he felt better for leaving payment. Unless he counted the honeycakes he regularly removed with uncannily light fingers from the kitchens, he had never stolen anything before. But this was an exceptional occasion. Lute wanted to see his famous uncle before he was properly reacquainted with him in the more formal atmosphere of the palace. As it was, the tension was obvious between his parents over the Duke’s victorious return. His mother clearly disliked Janko, while his
father revered him. Family sensitivity and her own good grace prevented his mother from coming right out and saying that she didn’t want her son around the Duke, Lute realised. In contrast, it appeared his father couldn’t wait to get nephew and uncle together again. Lute didn’t know what to think; he trusted both his parents but as they were so divided on this issue, he was determined to work out the Duke for himself.

He had been tempted to discuss it with Pilo, his guardian, although ‘guard’ might be a better way to describe him, Lute thought, as he wended his way through the happy mob. He loved Pilo who, if Lute was very honest, was more of a father to him than was his own. He shared the King with an entire realm, and he was often away. Even when Rodin was at home he appeared distracted, almost absent. The only person who could hold Rodin’s attention from matters of state for any length of time was his mother. He smiled to himself. It was reassuring that his parents did not live in a loveless marriage like some of the other nobles and dignitaries he’d met. Talking with other children, who now and then attended functions at the palace, he could tell that some of them came from unhappy homes of cold, long-dead marriages that continued only in name for the outward appearance.
And money
, Lute thought, as he skipped below the arm of a man singing at the top of his voice, a pint of ale hovering dangerously in his hand, threatening to spill. Money usually meant power, he thought, returning to his previous musings. He tried to imagine how the Duke felt about being the younger son, by only a year. Lute would have loved a brother but he was intelligent enough to understand that Janko might well feel competitive towards Rodin, who was, his mother had once mentioned, just eleven moons older. He remembered how she’d arched an eyebrow when she’d said it because the number eleven was a superstitious number in Floris. It was said to hold bad luck and it was another reason Miralda was suspicious of the man. The number was significant. Mothers became smotheringly protective of their children during the moons between turning eleven and until they reached twelve. Lute could remember how ferociously careful the Queen had become when he
was living through that time. In fact that was really when Pilo became so important in his life.