“I can imagine,” said Jordan. “Look, are you sure you can get me away safely afterward?”
“We’ll take care of everything,” said Roderik reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry about anything but your performance.”
Jordan nodded slowly. “So, King Malcolm is dead. All those campaigns he led, all those battles he fought in, and he finally dies in his own castle, poisoned. A dirty way to die. How long before the news gets out?”
“So far, the Regent’s been able to keep a lid on things,” said Roderik. “No one outside the castle knows anything yet. It has to be that way. If the news gets out before the succession is decided, there’ll be panic in the land. There might even be civil war, and none of us wants that.”
“If Malcolm was poisoned,” said Jordan slowly, “who did it?”
“There are several suspects,” said Argent. “Not least Viktor’s two brothers, Lewis and Dominic. But there’s no proof against anyone, so far.”
“I doubt there’ll ever be any real proof,” said Gawaine. “It was a very professional job. The autopsy couldn’t find a trace of poison.”
Jordan frowned. He was getting too much information at once to be able to make sense of it. He decided to concentrate on the only details that mattered: those directly affecting the prince he had to play. He sighed silently. He hated politics, and Court politics in particular. Intrigues made his head hurt. He supposed he just didn’t think deviously enough. He thought hard about what he’d been told so far, and a question occurred to him.
“Gawaine, you said Prince Viktor had been away from Court for four years. Where’s he been all that time?”
“The king sent him into internal exile,” said Roderik, before Gawaine could answer. “A minor border city, called Kahalimar. Like his brothers, Viktor was never known for his self-control, and eventually he went a little too far. It was thought a few years in the back lands might help to cool his blood.”
“I see,” said Jordan. “So I’m playing a villain, am I?”
“Viktor’s not that bad,” said Gawaine quickly. “He’s headstrong, and too easily led for his own good, but at heart he’s a true prince. I’ve sworn to defend him with my life.”
Jordan made a mental note to talk to Roderik and Gawaine separately; their views on Viktor seemed to differ quite a bit, and that might be important. A new thought struck him, and he gave Roderik a hard look.
“You still haven’t said why you chose me for this job. All right, I’m an excellent actor, one of the best, but there are others almost as good as me. And most of them are much better known these days than I am.”
“That was part of the problem,” said Roderik. “If one of your more illustrious colleagues were to suddenly disappear, it would be bound to be noticed. Questions would be asked. However, in your case … well—you understand, I’m sure. And there was one other reason why we particularly wanted you.”
“Oh yes?” said Jordan. “And what might that be?”
“You’re a conjurer, as well as an actor.”
Jordan looked at him blankly for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Of course, the royal Blood …”
The kings of Redhart were magic users, and had been for generations. Every member of the royal line inherited the ability to manipulate one of the four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. The spreading Bloodlines were jealously guarded and nurtured down the centuries, as it was discovered that the purer the Blood, the more powerful would be the resulting magic. For a while, the royal line became dangerously interbred, producing monsters and mules more often than normal children. These days there were strict laws and traditions to protect the magic-carrying Bloodlines, and the elemental powers only remained truly powerful in the carefully monitored royal line.
“Prince Viktor has the fire magic,” said Roderik. “Whoever was to take his place had to be able to counterfeit this magic convincingly. You’re a conjurer, Jordan; a few flames on demand shouldn’t prove too difficult for you.”
Jordan frowned unhappily. “They’ll see through it. They’re bound to. My tricks are good, but they’re still only tricks and illusions.”
Roderik smiled, and shook his head reassuringly. “No one will suspect anything. They’ll see only what they expect to see.”
Jordan looked at him for a moment, and then shrugged. “You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this, so I suppose you must know what you’re doing.”
“Then may I suggest, Your Highness, that we get a bloody move on,” said Sir Gawaine. “We’re pressed for time.”
Jordan nodded, and went to get his horse. Roderik sent Sir Gawaine with him, just to keep him company. They walked in silence. Jordan didn’t know what to say to the knight, and Gawaine seemed content to leave it that way. They walked quickly through the darkening evening, their steps echoing dully back from the stone walls on either side of them. The houses were silent, and no lights showed past the closed shutters, but Jordan had no doubt he and Gawaine were still being watched. People in small towns didn’t miss much, if they could help it. Jordan sneaked a few sidelong glances at Gawaine. He wasn’t sure yet what to make of the knight. The man was obviously competent, not to mention dangerous, but there was a bitter, brooding quality to Sir Gawaine that intrigued Jordan. If he was going to get answers from anybody in the conspiracy about what was really going on, Gawaine looked to be the best bet. It might pay to cultivate the knight …
Jordan found his horse still waiting patiently beside the parked caravan at the edge of the town. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even hobble his horse these days; he didn’t have to. Smokey was well trained, and too lazy to go anywhere she didn’t absolutely have to. There was a time Jordan had worried someone might steal her, but of late the ominous runes and curses he’d painted on the sides of his caravan kept everyone at a respectable distance. After the Demon War, even footpads and outlaws had discovered a new respect for the supernatural. Jordan looked proudly at the runes he’d painted. He hadn’t a clue what they meant, but they looked great. He glanced at Gawaine, who was studying the grazing horse. His gaze suggested that he was used to companions who rode a better class of animal. Jordan had to agree that Smokey wasn’t exactly pedigree stock. She was mostly brown, with white patches, and reputedly even older than she looked. On a bad day, it was all she could do to break into a canter. But she pulled the heavy caravan for hours on end without complaint, once he got her moving, and she accepted resignedly the occasional hungry days that were a part of every strolling player’s life. Though having Smokey around meant he could keep the strolling part to a minimum. He reached into his pocket and brought out the half carrot he’d saved from his last meal. Smokey picked it daintily off his palm and crunched it up while staring vacantly into the distance. Ungrateful animal, thought Jordan, but smiled anyway. He and Smokey were used to each other’s little ways. He made to harness her up to the caravan, but Gawaine stopped him with a raised hand.
“You needn’t bother with the caravan. You won’t be needing it.”
“What do you mean, I won’t need it? How else am I supposed to carry all my stuff? There’s my stage, the costumes, the props …”
“We’ll supply everything you need to be Prince Viktor. Everything else gets left here. No arguments, Jordan. We know what we’re doing. You can’t afford to be found with anything that might give away who you really are.”
Jordan scowled unhappily. “What about Smokey? I won’t leave her behind. She’s a good horse, in her way.”
Gawaine looked at the horse, sniffed, and then looked away again. “We can always say your usual mount went lame. Now then, if you’ll look in the back of your caravan, you’ll find a parcel containing a set of Prince Viktor’s clothes. Get changed, and don’t take too long about it. I want to put a few miles between us and this town while there’s still some light left.”
Jordan looked at him for a long moment. “You put these clothes in my caravan before you’d even talked to me? You must have been pretty damned c
onfident I’d agree to this.”
“Roderik wanted you,” said Gawaine. “And he usually gets what he wants.”
Jordan had several quick answers to that one, but decided it might be politic to keep them to himself for the time being. He started to unlace the back flaps of his caravan, and glanced irritably at Gawaine. “You don’t need to hang around, you know. I’m quite capable of getting dressed on my own.”
“Think of me as your bodyguard,” said Gawaine. “Anyone who wants to kill you has to get past me first.”
“A gray-haired bodyguard,” said Jordan. “Just what I always wanted. You’re not fooling anyone, Gawaine. You’re just here to make sure I don’t change my mind and run out on you. Right?”
“Of course,” said Gawaine calmly. “We can’t have you running around the countryside wearing Prince Viktor’s face, can we? That could prove very unfortunate.”
“Yeah, your little conspiracy would sink without a trace, wouldn’t it?”
Gawaine grinned and shook his head. “I was thinking more of how unfortunate it would be for you, Jordan. Because if you were dumb enough to run out on us, I’d track you down and kill you. Don’t let the gray hair fool you, lad. I may not be as fast as I once was, but I’m twice as mean when I’m annoyed. And don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re irreplaceable. We can always find another actor, if we have to.”
“Not like me,” said Jordan flatly. “I’m the best.” Gawaine glanced briefly at the small shabby caravan, with its peeling paint and mismatched wheels. “Sure you are, Jordan. You’ve just come down in the world, like me. Now hurry up and get changed, and forget any ideas about running. I’ve sworn to protect Viktor from any and all dangers, and that includes small-time actors with delusions of grandeur.”
Jordan’s hand dropped to the sword at his side, but before his fingers could even touch the hilt, Gawaine had drawn his ax and stepped forward to set its edge against the actor’s throat. Jordan started to back away, and the ax followed him. Its edge cut a little deeper, and Jordan stood very still and fought down an urge to swallow. He breathed very shallowly, and felt a thin trickle of blood run down his throat.
“Understand me, actor,” said Gawaine softly. “I swore an oath upon my life and upon my honor to protect Prince Viktor. I stood at his side when his father banished him, and I followed him into internal exile for four long years. If I even think you’re going to be a problem, I’ll cut you into pieces. Remember that, actor.”
He stepped back a pace, lowered his ax, and sheathed it at his side again. Jordan put a hand unsteadily to his throat, and his fingers came away bloody. His hackles rose, and a cold breeze caressed the back of his neck. His legs were shaking slightly, as much from shock as fear. He’d seen his share of violence in his travels, and even been in a few sword fights himself when there was no other way out, but never in his life had he ever seen anyone move as quickly as Sir Gawaine.
What the hell have I got myself into this time?
He pulled out a handkerchief, cleaned the blood off his fingers, and then pressed the cloth to his throat. He was pleased that at least his hands weren’t shaking. He tried concentrating on the ten thousand ducats, but the thought didn’t comfort him as much as it once had. He turned his back on Gawaine, and climbed up into his caravan. He pulled the leather flaps shut behind him, and then sat down on his unmade bed and thought hard.
There was no doubt in his mind that Gawaine had meant every word he’d said. If he tried to back out now, the knight would kill him. On the other hand, there was obviously a great deal about this conspiracy he wasn’t being told. For example, what the hell had Viktor done to get himself sent into internal exile? Jordan took the handkerchief away from his throat, and looked sourly at the bloodstained cloth. Maybe he could sneak up on the knight while he was sleeping … But there was still the ten thousand ducats to consider. As long as there was a chance of getting his hands on that kind of money, he wasn’t sure he wanted to back out. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket, and looked around the crowded interior of his caravan. The rough-wooden walls weren’t even varnished, let alone painted, and the floor had disappeared under a confused mess of props and costumes. When he’d been at the top of his career, he’d had dressing rooms that were bigger than this. He looked at the package Roderik had left for him on his bunk, and sighed quietly. He’d go along with the others, for now. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
The clothes turned out to be elegant, richly colored and a perfect fit. Well tailored, too. Presumably they’d been made especially for the prince he now resembled. Jordan fumbled a little at the unfamiliar hooks and fastenings, and stopped every now and again just to admire a particularly fine piece of attire, but finally he was ready. He strutted back and forth in the narrow space, sweeping his cloak around him, and wished he had a full-length mirror. He wore his own shirt underneath the long waistcoat, even though he had to leave half the buttons undone. He needed the hidden pockets sown into its sleeves to carry the flare pellets and smoke bombs he used to counterfeit his magic. He stuffed the pockets as full as he could. He didn’t know how long it would be before he’d have a chance to make any more.
He strapped his own sword on his hip. Roderik had provided a blade of far superior quality and workmanship, but Jordan preferred to stick with the sword he was used to. And just to be on the safe side, he slipped a throwing knife into the top of his knee-length boot. He’d always been good with a throwing knife. Better safe than sorry, as his dad always said. That left only one item to put on, and Jordan stared at it for a long moment. The chain mail vest stared blankly back at him. Given the circumstances, the vest was a sensible precaution, but he was still reluctant to put it on, as though by acknowledging the danger, he somehow made it real. He shook his head, took off the cloak, and put on the chain mail vest. It was lighter than it looked, but he could still feel its solid weight tugging at him every time he moved. He pulled on the heavy burgundy cloak again, hiding the vest from sight, but it didn’t help. Jordan looked around his caravan one last time, and then pushed past the leather flaps and jumped down onto the ground.
Sir Gawaine was still waiting for him. Jordan stood haughtily before him, and took up his best aristocratic stance. Gawaine bowed formally to him.
“If you’re quite ready, Your Highness, we should rejoin the others.”
Jordan nodded stiffly. A chill wind was blowing from the north, and he pulled his cloak around him. “I trust we won’t be traveling far tonight, Gawaine. It’s going to be bitter cold on the road once the sun goes down.”
“I think the sooner we leave Bannerwick behind us, the better, sire,” said Gawaine. “We aren’t the only ones who have agents out in the kingdom.”
Jordan nodded reluctantly. He turned to his horse and found Gawaine had her already saddled and waiting. He swung up onto Smokey’s back without saying anything. Gawaine reached up and took hold of the bridle, and led horse and rider back down the deserted main street to where the others were waiting. Their horses were fine Thoroughbreds, beside which Smokey in her battered trappings looked very much the poor relation. Jordan patted her neck and muttered a few comforting words as Gawaine moved away to mount his horse. They all looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then Robert Argent started off and the others followed him. The quick hoofbeats sounded loud and distinct on the quiet as the small party left Bannerwick behind them and headed out into the falling dusk.
The evening was still and silent as they made their way out onto the moor. The sun was sinking below the horizon in a mass of bloodstained clouds. Sir Gawaine lit a lantern and hung it from his saddle horn, so that the small party moved in its own pool of amber light. A cold wind gusted across the open moorland, ruffling the tall heather with a heavy hand. It rose and fell like the slow swell of a purple sea. The thick smoky scent of the heather made a pleasant contrast to the open-sewered stench of the mill town, and Jordan began to relax a little. He’d always liked traveling by night, and the lonely
moors held no horrors for him. Bandits and wolves tended to prefer the forests, and he was too old to believe in ghosts. Besides, away from the stage he liked his solitude. It gave him time to think, to be himself rather than one of the many masks he wore for other people, on and off stage. The moors had their own stark beauty, for those with eyes to see it, and yet for once their open grandeur had no power to soothe his soul.
It was all very well playing brave warriors and noble heroes on the stage, but he was well aware that out in the real world he had none of the qualities necessary to bring off such a role. He was an actor, not a fighter, and he was perfectly happy to leave it that way. In his experience, heroes tended to lead short and very dangerous lives, and usually came to a nasty end. Standing up to be counted just made you an easier target to hit. And yet here he was, heading into an arena more perilous than any battlefield: a Court torn by intrigue. Jordan decided he wasn’t going to think about it anymore, for the time being. It just made his stomach ache. He glanced surreptitiously at Sir Gawaine, riding close beside him. He wasn’t sure whether the knight’s presence made him feel more secure or more threatened.
“Roderik,” said Jordan finally, as much to break the silence as anything, “tell me about Prince Viktor. Just an outline to begin with, to give me a feel for the part. And I’ll need to know about his brothers as well.”
“Of course,” said Count Roderik. As he spoke, his voice remained casual and unhurried, but he never once looked at Jordan. “You are the middle of three sons. Prince Lewis is the eldest. He inherited earth magic by his Blood. There isn’t much call for earth magic inside a castle, so he’s spent most of his life training to be a warrior. He favors the sword, and is very good with it. In many ways he was King Malcolm’s favorite, but of late he and your father had grown distant. He has a vile temper, and won’t be crossed on anything. His private life is a scandal. In his position, he could have practically any woman for the asking, but instead he prefers to intimidate and take by force young ladies from the lesser nobility. Any who dare complain are dismissed from Court, and their families are disgraced. Few are prepared to make an enemy of the man who may one day be their king. He’s known to have strangled one girl when she declared she was pregnant by him. It was never proved, of course, but everybody knows.”