“Come in,” called the saturnine ranger in response to the knock at his door. He raised his eyes from the game board on the table in front of him where some red discs surrounded half as many black discs. Muce was beating him at checkers. Again. The empty plates and bottles from their lunch shared the table with their game.
Prince Donald entered the room. He wore somber gray pants and a black jacket, making him the best-dressed person now in the room by far. Kwestor lounged in a long, red dressing gown worn over a set of long johns and a pair of fuzzy slippers. He did not care if anyone found his appearance comical. The luxury of having warm feet came far too infrequently. Muce, although barefoot, looked a bit more presentable in a loose, open necked white shirt and tan pants.
“Who’s winning?” Donald asked.
“I’m up three to one,” said Muce.
“This one will make it four out of five,” Kwestor added solemnly.
“Oh, don’t feel bad. It’s just luck,” the blond fighter said.
“I don’t feel…” the ranger began and then changed his mind. “There’s no luck in checkers.”
“There’s got to be. It’s a game.”
“No dice, no cards, no luck.”
“Well, I guess growing up around games must have just given me a knack for them or something.”
“You’re not really planning your moves, are you?”
“No, I’m just doing what looks right, you know.”
“No, can’t say I do. Do you know what an idiot savant is?”
“No.”
“Good. They’re insufferable.”
Donald sat on a corner of the bed. “My father held an audience this morning,” he began.
“We heard,” replied Kwestor.
“Yes, the nice girl who brought our lunch told us,” added Muce.
“She did?”
“Uh-huh. She said you were being sent to Gotrox to find out what’s going on. She brought me some extra potato salad, too.”
“That’s nice. I’m really just being sent to provide a royal presence. Some guy named Barnabus Snyde is supposed to be the actual diplomat. Have you ever heard of him, Kwestor?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I got the impression he’s not very well known. I heard he’s a lawyer by trade. I think Horace Barter selected him.”
Kwestor could tell the young man wanted his reaction. By habit, he kept what he thought off his face. He knew how. After some initial difficulty, he had learned to discipline his feelings well. They were quite under control now, locked up, seldom visited, and nary a whimper anymore. The world is a disappointing thing, but he learned to accept it. He even came to understand it after a fashion. This is just how it is. Letting it upset you changed nothing. So there would be a war. Thousands could be killed. Well, that is people for you. They are like that sometimes. He idly wondered what Barter hoped to get out of it.
Whimper.
“What do you think?” Donald prompted.
“I think you won’t enjoy the experience very much.”
The prince let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. “I’m not supposed to enjoy it; it’s my duty. What I meant was what do you make of it? You, know. Does this support your idea that there’s something devious about all of this? I have to admit, I’m certainly beginning to think so. I mean, it could be what everyone seems to think. You know, Gotrox planning an invasion for some reason. If it’s not, and I don’t think it is, well, I just can’t see it being an honest mistake anymore. It’s all too—consistent.”
“What is certain is that your father’s chief adviser has succeeded in maintaining control over the situation.” He wanted to help the boy. He truly did. He had allowed himself to grow fond of the young prince. He was one of the few examples of humanity who possessed redeeming qualities. Sure, Barter must be behind it. If not the mastermind, at least the one in charge of handling the king. Kwestor could not prove it, but it all fit fairly well. Better than any of the alternatives. It would be an unkindness to encourage the prince at this stage, though. What would be the point in frustrating the boy? He would want to do something and Kwestor saw little he could do, even as the king’s son. This the ranger knew. Donald tried. He did his best, but in terms of being able to change the ultimate outcome, the prince remained a minor player and Kwestor himself probably did not even have a token in the game. So why was Kwestor bothering himself with it at all? Subconscious curiosity probably. Even though no reasonable doubt could exist about the final score, it still might be interesting to watch the game played out.
“You mean he’s making sure my father only learns what he wants him to learn.”
“Yes, something like that.”
“I just came back from talking with him. Barter, that is. He called me into his office to tell me how important this mission was. What I think he was really trying to do is keep me from interfering.”
“That’s possible, although I doubt he’s very concerned. If he is behind this, he has resources that could counter anything you would be able to do.”
“Resources—that reminds me, he mentioned we are dependent on Gotrox for our resources and I wasn’t sure what he meant.”
“Iron mostly, I would imagine. Westgrove gets a lot of iron from Gotrox now.” Kwestor thought for a moment. “Is that how he phrased it? Our resources?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Isn’t it odd that our resources are in their mountains?”
The ranger moved his last checker. Muce quickly jumped it with one of his. “Game over.” The muscular fighter smiled. “Want to go again?”
“No, thank you. I’ve done enough futility exercises for one day already.”
“Huh?” Muce seemed to be waiting for an explanation, but when Kwestor failed to provide one, he rose from his chair and ambled to the window.
Donald looked toward the checkerboard with an unfocused expression. “I may not have much influence, but at least I can make sure my father gets a second opinion about how the proceedings at this meeting with Gotrox go.”
He’s planning an adventure again. “You mean, tell him yourself? That’s a fine idea, but Barter will have a messenger come along, and whatever Snyde sends to him will get back here long before you can. By then, Barter will have had time to manipulate things in all sorts of ways. When you finally get back to add your copper’s worth, your father will probably believe the stoutfolk have a tunnel to Greatbridge already filled with soldiers running all the way back to Kartok or something like that. Sometimes you just have to accept that the world stinks, and there is nothing you can do about it.”
“If he can bring a messenger, I can bring a messenger.”
I don’t like where this is leading, Kwestor thought.
“And some other personal retainers as well,” the young prince continued.
No, definitely not liking it.
“You and Muce will come along, of course.”
“Of course,” mumbled the ranger. He appreciated Donald’s need to keep trying. He told him himself he must do everything he could in order to be able to live with himself, but Kwestor saw no practical reason he should be part of it. He knew neither he nor the prince could change the outcome. When you are outmatched, it’s better to recognize the fact early. It avoided a lot of unnecessary pain and frustration. Donald still could not see this. He must learn the lesson the hard way. Kwestor might be able to make it a bit easier on him, though. Perhaps this provided reason enough for him to go along.
“Go with you to Kartok?” said Muce, who turned from the window through which Kwestor could see a flock of birds coming to perch on a nearby rooftop. They must have been what drew the notsos attention away from their conversation. “That would be great! I love Gotroxian food. There’s this potato curry thing they make that—”
“Later, Muce,” Donald and Kwestor chorused.
“Who else do you think I should bring?” Donald asked the ranger.
“A messenger, like you said, if you want to get a note ba
ck here quickly.”
“Maybe the one we met in Barter’s forge is available,” Muce commented. She must be good if the Messengers’ Guild picked her to carry a message for the king. You remember her, don’t you, Your Highness? You bumped into her at breakfast that day, and—”
His cheeks flushed. “Yes, I remember. Thank you. We will need a messenger. How would we go about hiring one?”
“Just go to the guild, pay the retainer, and put your mark on the contract. That’s it. I can take care of it, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, Kwestor. How much money will you need?”
Kwestor told him.
Donald grimaced but said he could cover it.
“You know, the Crown will probably cover any reasonable expenses. You are acting as their royal envoy, after all.”
“My mother told me retainers were customary. A personal messenger is probably reasonable.”
“I would think so. What else did your mother say?”
“Oh, not a lot really.” Quietly, almost under his breath, he added, “She said to bring my mittens.”
“Good advice, that.”