“As it is, it’s touch and go whether we dare draw the Curtana now, never mind the Infernal Devices. If the Barons even suspect we intend drawing those swords as well …”
“We’ll have open rebellion on our hands. I do take your point, John, but we’ve got to have those swords. The darkness will be here soon, and we can’t afford to rely on the High Warlock. We can’t even be sure he’ll come.”
“He’ll come,” said the King. “You know he’ll come.”
There was an awkward silence. Grey cleared his throat uncertainly. “I know how you feel about him, John. But we need him.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he’s changed. He’s been away a long time.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“John …”
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
Thomas Grey looked into his old friend’s eyes and then turned his head away, unable to face the ancient rage and bitterness and sorrow he found there.
“Tell me about the Infernal Devices,” said King John. “It’s been years since I had to read up on the bloody things.”
“Apparently there were once six of these swords,” said the Astrologer quietly. “But only three remain to us: Flarebright, Wolfsbane and Rockbreaker. No one’s dared draw them for centuries.”
“Are they as powerful as the legends say?”
Grey shrugged. “Probably more so. Every source I can find was scared spitless by them.”
“That’s as may be,” growled the King. “But both they and the Curtana are still sheathed in their scabbards in the Old Armoury, and the Old Armoury is in the South Wing. And we haven’t been able to find that since we lost it thirty-two years ago!”
“The Seneschal says he can find it,” said Grey calmly, “And that’s good enough for me. He’s the best tracker this Castle’s ever had.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said the King. He scratched half-heartedly at his ragged mop of hair, and sighed wearily. “There are times, Thomas, when I wish your title wasn’t just honorary. Right now it would be very useful to have someone who could foresee the future.”
Grey laughed. “Sorry, John, but my title’s nothing more than a legacy from our superstitious ancestors. When all’s said and done, I’m just an astronomer. Show me a sheep’s entrails and all I could tell you is what kind of soup they’d make.”
The King smiled, and nodded slowly. “Just a thought, Thomas, just a thought.” He rose stiffly to his feet, and glanced round the empty Court. “I think I’ll turn in now. I get so damn tired, these days.”
“You’ve been working too hard. We both have. You ought to give Harald more responsibility, let him handle some of the routine matters. He’s of an age where he could easily take some of the burden off our backs.”
“No,” said the King shortly. “He’s not ready yet.”
“You can’t go on putting it off, John. We won’t always be here to guide him, age is creeping up on us.”
“In my case, it seems to be positively sprinting.” The King gave a short bark of laughter and started down the dais steps, waving aside the Astrologer’s offered arm. “I’m tired, Thomas. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“John,”
“Tomorrow, Thomas.”
The Astrologer watched the King walk slowly across his empty Court. “Tomorrow may be too late, John,” he said quietly, but if the King heard him, he gave no sign to show it.
“You could be King, Harald,” said Lord Darius.
“I will be King,” said Harald. “I’m the eldest son. One day, all the Forest Land will be mine.”
“You’ll be King of nothing if you wait to inherit the throne.”
“That’s treason.”
“Yes,” said Lord Darius pleasantly. “It is.”
The two men smiled, and toasted each other with their goblets. Harald nodded his acceptance of the vintage, and the Lady Cecelia leaned gracefully forward and filled his glass to the brim. The Prince smiled his thanks, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and glanced round Darius’s chambers. From the tales he’d heard of Darius’s lifestyle, Harald had expected lush and sumptuous quarters, buried under thick carpets and rich tapestries. Instead, he found a quiet, sombre, almost austere room whose floor and walls were bare polished wood, warmed only by a single fire. An exit lay hidden behind a massive bookcase, whose shelves were tightly packed with works on politics, history and magic. Harald raised a mental eyebrow. It seemed there was more to the Minister for War than met the casual eye. The Prince sipped at his wine and studied Lord Darius over the goblet’s rim. There was a basic squat ugliness to the man’s face that all the careful make-up, plucked eyebrows and oiled hair couldn’t disguise, and when he dropped his public mask his face set into uncompromising lines of cold determination.
This man is dangerous, thought Harald calmly. He’s ambitious and ruthless; a useful combination in any field, but especially so in politics. Probably sees himself as a Kingmaker.
He turned his attention to Lord Darius’s wife, the Lady Cecelia. She smiled slowly, and met his gaze with a stare of open appraisal. Hair dark as the night tumbled down over her bared alabaster shoulders, outlining and emphasising her delicately pretty face. Sensuality smouldered in her dark eyes and pouting lips. She had changed from her intricately ornate Court gown into a simple silk wrap that revealed tantalisingly brief glimpses of upper thigh every time she moved. Tasty, thought Harald, and not exactly backward in coming forward, even with her husband present. Not for the first time, Harald wondered what Darius and Cecelia saw in each other. There was no doubt they made a formidable political team, but her affairs with the younger guardsmen were common gossip. Darius must have known, but he never said anything. Takes all sorts to make a world, thought Harald sardonically.
“Well, my Lord Minister for War,” he said politely, “this is all very pleasant, I’m sure, but what exactly do you want from me?”
Darius smiled at the Prince’s bluntness, and sipped unhurriedly at his wine. “As yet, very little, Sire. But rest assured that my friends have your best interests at heart.”
“Really?” said Harald amusedly. “How very interesting. I was under the impression your friends had the interests of the Forest Land at heart. That is, after all, why I’m here.”
“By helping you, we help the Land,” said Darius earnestly. “Your father is no longer fit to be King. He has abandoned the Barons to the darkness, insulted and attacked the Landsgraves in open Court, and now he threatens to draw the Curtana! He must know the Barons won’t stand for that. He’s all but inviting a rebellion.”
“The Barons need a King,” said Harald calmly. “They haven’t enough men to make their separate stands against the Darkwood, and they know it. Their only hope is an army; a single armed force strong enough to throw the darkness back. They tried bullying the King into giving them more men, only to find he doesn’t need their support any more. Assuming, of course, that the Curtana will work on non-human minds. If it doesn’t, it’ll be too late to try to raise an army. Small wonder the Barons are desperate. If the sword doesn’t work, we all go down into the darkness. If it does work, King John could become the greatest tyrant this Land has ever known. With the Sword of Compulsion in his hand, his merest whim would become law. However, with King John overthrown, who would control the army? The Barons don’t trust each other, as any one of them could use the army to make himself King.
“So, the barons need a King, but they don’t want King John. And that, my Lord Darius, is why you requested my presence here tonight. Isn’t it?”
Darius studied the Prince narrowly. “You show a keen grasp of the situation, Sire. I didn’t realise you had such an interest in politics. In the past you’ve always seemed more concerned with other … pursuits.”
Harald laughed. “But then none of us are always what we seem, are we, dear fellow?” The habitual blandness fell suddenly from his face, revealing hard, determined features dominated by piercing dark eyes
. “I may act the fool, Darius, but don’t ever take me for one.”
“Why pretend at all?” asked the Lady Cecelia, frowning prettily.
“It disarms people,” said Harald. “They don’t see me as a threat until it’s too late. Besides, it amuses me.”
His face relaxed into its usual lines of vague amiability, but his eyes remained cold and sardonic. Darius smiled uncertainly, his mind racing as he struggled for the right approach to use with this new, unexpected, Prince Harald.
“Your father undoubtedly means well, Sire, but he is an old man, and his mind is not what it was. He listens too much to his pet Astrologer, and not enough to those courtiers whose privilege and responsibility it has always been to advise him. With the darkness already gathering outside our walls, we can’t afford a King who’d gamble all our lives on a single magic sword that might not even work. If the King won’t listen to reason, he must be made to listen.”
“You’re talking about my father,” said Harald softly. “If I thought you were threatening him …”
“We’re not,” said Darius quickly. “There’s no question of the King coming to any harm.”
“You’re forgetting Sir Bedivere.”
“A mistake, I promise you. I don’t think any of us had realised just how unstable the man had become.”
Harald looked at him coldly.
“Please believe me, Sire,” said Darius slowly. “The King will not be harmed. My associates and I have a great deal of respect for what he has achieved in the past. We merely feel that the pressures of his position have grown too great for him, in his old age. The Forest Land needs a younger, more capable ruler. Such as yourself, Prince Harald.”
The Prince just smiled at him. A silence grew between them.
“Do we have your support?” asked Darius. He could feel a cold sweat forming on his face, though the room was comfortably warm. The Prince sitting opposite him wasn’t the man he thought he knew, and Darius began to wonder if perhaps he and his friends had made a horrible mistake. One word from this cold-eyed stranger to the Royal Guard, and a great many heads would roll from the bloodstained block before morning. Darius shifted his weight in his chair, casually dropping one pudgy hand on to the hilt of the poisoned dagger he carried sheathed beneath his sleeve.
Harald lifted his empty glass. The Lady Cecelia leaned forward and poured him more wine. Her silk wrap parted slightly, allowing Harald a brief glimpse of her impressive cleavage. Harald sipped at his wine, and smiled sardonically.
“You have my support,” he said finally, “but for my reasons, not yours.”
“Your reasons?” said Darius uncertainly.
“I want to be King,” said Harald. “And I’m tired of waiting.”
Darius smiled, and moved his hand away from the dagger. “I don’t think you need wait much longer, Sire.”
“Good,” said Harald. He sipped at his wine thoughtfully. “Why did you come to me, Darius? Surely Rupert would have been a better choice, he has so much more to gain than I do.”
“Rupert has become an unknown factor,” said Darius. “His time in the Darkwood changed him. He’s become stronger, more forceful, more … independent. He’s always been loyal to the Land, but he’s made no secret of the fact that he puts ethics before politics. A rather naïve attitude in a Prince, and altogether untenable in a King. Besides, I don’t think he and I could ever work amicably together.”
“He doesn’t like me, either,” said the Lady Cecelia, pouting elegantly.
Harald put down his glass and rose to his feet. “I support you in principle, Darius, but for the moment that’s as far as I go. Arrange a meeting for me with your … friends, and I’ll talk with them. If I’m to commit treason, I want to know who my fellow conspirators are. All of them.”
“Very well,” said Darius. “I’ll have word brought to you when we’re ready.”
“Soon,” said Harald. “Make it soon.”
“Of course, Sire,” said Darius, and Harald left. Darius poured himself more wine, and was surprised to find that his hands were shaking.
“Insolent puppy,” he growled. “He should be grateful for the chance we’re giving him.”
“Kings aren’t noted for their gratitude,” pointed out the Lady Cecelia tartly. “He’ll come around. He’s young and greedy, and not nearly as bright as he’d like us to think.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” said Sir Blays, stepping out from behind the bookcase as it swung slowly open on its concealed hinges. Sir Guillam and Sir Bedivere followed him into the room, and the bookcase swung shut behind them.
“We don’t have to worry about Harald,” said Darius. “He wants to be King, and we’re his best chance.”
“This morning I might have agreed with you,” said Blays thoughtfully, sinking into the chair opposite Darius. “Now, I’m not so sure. I always said there was more going on in that Prince’s head than anyone ever gave him credit for, and unfortunately it seems I was right. The old Harald was no problem, we could have handled him. This new Harald—I don’t know. He must have realised that once we’ve put him on the throne, he’ll never be anything more than a figurehead for the Barons.”
“Undoubtedly he has,” said Darius complacently, folding his fat hands across his stomach. “But what can he do? If he betrays us to the Royal Guard, he loses his chance to be King. He might never get another. And once we’ve placed him on the throne, he’ll soon find he needs us more than ever. The odds are that Prince Rupert will be back by then, along with the Champion and the High Warlock. No, gentlemen, Harald needs us, and he knows it. If we work it right, he’ll always need us.”
“The High Warlock worries me,” said Blays. “What if he and the Champion decide to overthrow Harald in favour of Rupert?”
“From what I remember of the High Warlock, he won’t give a damn who sits on the throne, as long as they do what he tells them. He never was much interested in politics.”
“And Rupert and the Champion?”
“The Champion has always been loyal to the eldest son,” said Darius slowly. “And he’s never had much time for Rupert. I don’t think the Champion will be a problem. In fact, with a little persuasion he might even take care of Rupert for us.”
He looked up, and realised Sir Guillam and Sir Bedivere were still standing. “Do sit down, gentlemen, you make the place look untidy.”
Guillam bobbed his head quickly, and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest him. He smiled briefly at Darius and Cecelia, as though apologising for his presence, his pale blue eyes blinking nervously all the while. Bedivere stood at parade rest, his back straight and his hand near his swordhilt. He made no move to seat himself. Darius studied him narrowly. Bedivere had replaced his damaged chain-mail and jerkin, and apart from a slight paleness to the face, no sign remained of the ordeal he’d suffered at the Astrologer’s hands. And yet despite his calm features and relaxed stance, he was no more at ease than a cat waiting at a mousehole. There was a deadly stillness to the man, as though he was merely waiting for his next order to kill somebody. Who knows, thought Darius, maybe he is.
Blays brushed disdainfully at a length of cobweb clinging to his sleeve. “You really should do something about your bolthole, Darius. The acoustics are appalling and the walls are filthy.”
“It was also very draughty,” said Guillam petulantly. “The length of time you kept us waiting there, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught a chill. What is that place anyway? The tunnel we were in seemed to go on for miles.”
“It does,” said Darius. “It’s a part of the air vents.” He sighed quietly as he took in the Landsgrave’s puzzled face, and decided he’d better explain, if only for the sake of good relations. “Sir Guillam, you must have already noticed that my chambers, like the majority of rooms in this Castle, have no windows. It is therefore vitally important to keep air circulating throughout the Castle, if it is not to turn bad and poison us all. The many vents and tunnels within the Castle walls are designed to
draw in fresh air from the outside, and carry out the foul air. Over the years I’ve spent a great deal of time exploring and mapping the endless miles of air vents within the Castle; more than once they’ve proved an invaluable asset when it came to … gathering information.”
“I suppose it beats listening at keyholes,” said Blays sourly.
Darius smiled politely. “If nothing else, Sir Blays, you must admit that the air vents do provide an excellent escape route for us, should the need arise.”
“Maybe,” said Blays. “But you’d better do something about that bookcase door, it’s far too slow to open and close. In an emergency, it’d be no bloody use at all.”
Darius shrugged. “The counterweights are very old, and I lack the expertise to repair or replace them. As long as they still serve their purpose …”
“What about the migration?” said Blays suddenly. “Will that affect you?”
“I haven’t moved from these chambers in fifteen years,” said Darius calmly. “No one knows the secret of the bookcase but you and I.”
“Migration?” said Guillam, frowning. “What migration?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said Blays. “Now, Darius—”
“I want to know now!” snapped Guillam.
Darius looked to Blays, expecting him to put the other Landsgrave in his place, but to Darius’s surprise, Blays swallowed his irritation and nodded curtly to Guillam. Interesting, thought Darius. It would appear Sir Blays isn’t as much in control of things as he’d like everyone to think.
“You have to remember,” said Blays to Guillam, patiently, “that because the interior of the Castle is so much greater than the exterior, it causes certain unique problems for the occupants. One is the lack of windows and fresh air. Another is that with so many layers of stone between the inner and the outer rooms, there can be extreme differences in temperature within the Castle. The thick stone walls retain heat, so that the innermost rooms are always the warmest. Thus, in summer, the King and the higher members of society live on the outskirts of the Castle, where it’s coolest. When winter comes, they move to the centre of the Castle, where it’s warmest. Those in the lower strata of society live in a reverse manner. And those who hover somewhere between the two extremes, like Darius, don’t migrate at all. Is everything clear to you now, Sir Guillam?”