The King''s Justice: Two Novellas

  This also I understood. If hieronomers were required to discover sources of chrism, their services were surely much in demand.

  “Taken together,” Excrucia continued, “the records thereafter prompt little imagining. Indemnie became increasingly bountiful. The colonies grew apace—as did their subjects of contention. Their negotiations became ever more complex, the resolutions ever more formal. Thus it ensued—naturally, to my mind—that clear boundaries were established, clear rights codified. The lands thereby demarked became baronies as their lords or leaders elected to style themselves barons—a reflection, I believe, of the form of governance practiced in their lost homeland.

  “Still the sources of contention grew as the populations increased. One scroll asserts that the hieronomers of the baronies began to offer conflicting auguries. Another implies that the alchemists were disinclined to respect the governance of men who were not gifted. And the barons themselves chafed at the difficulties of achieving agreement when each held differing desires. Eventually they concluded that the only peaceful solution to their various dilemmas was to raise up a monarch whose word would bind them all.

  “In addition, they concluded that only a gifted monarch would be able to command the loyalty and service of the isle’s hieronomers and alchemists. Therefore they arranged a union between the two oldest families believed to have the purest blood. And when the joining of Amelda deVry and Arrant Phlegathon produced a daughter, that child upon her coming of age was proclaimed Queen Amarra Phlegathon deVry, the first of her line.”

  Briefly my companion sighed. “So my tales ends. The sequence of the Queens you know.” Then her manner quickened. “However, the records hold one other secret which will interest you. The Articles of Coronation signed by the barons of the time grant to the Queen authority in all matters pertaining to the well-being of the realm as a whole. So much appears both natural and necessary. But the Articles also stipulate the manner in which the succession is to be secured—and thereby they account for the choice of a Queen rather than a King.”

  I found that I was holding my breath. I had long pondered the curious detail that each of Indemnie’s Queens had birthed a daughter ere offering her hand in wedlock—and that this child had been universally accepted as the legitimate heir. But I had been unable to grasp the purpose of the custom.

  As she spoke, Excrucia watched me closely, gauging my reaction. “I will not quote the document itself. It is lengthy. But in sum, it recognizes that sexual congress may produce a bewildering variety of offspring, some or all with a claim upon the throne, yet the child of a woman’s body is hers beyond question. Therefore the Articles require that the Queen must give birth to a daughter ere she chooses to wed. To that end, she must procure the guidance of a hieronomer, presumably to ensure that she does not produce a son in error.

  “Further, the child’s father must be and forever remain unknown. His identity must be concealed so that he—and any other offspring of his loins—can have no claim upon either his royal daughter or his royal paramour. Similarly, any man whom the Queen subsequently elects to wed will have no claim, either direct or through his children.”

  While I stared, momentarily struck witless, Excrucia recounted her conclusions.

  “By such measures, the barons plainly sought to prevent any challenge to the rule and succession of Indemnie’s Queen. Their history of negotiated resolution rather than violent conflict assures us that they wished to preserve the realm’s future from civil war. But the rather extreme severity of the stipulation suggests that those barons had another purpose as well, one which is not named in the Articles.

  “I cannot resist one final supposition, that the terms of succession were intended to guard the purity of their monarch’s lineage. Queen Amarra Phlegathon deVry, first of her line, was the daughter of two families known to be gifted. I suspect that the barons desired every later Queen to be similarly gifted, with as little admixture or dilution of her ancestors’ abilities as possible.

  “This, I think, explains the insistence upon hieronomers. Their task was not merely to choose a father who would produce a daughter. It was also to choose a father descended from the founding gift-kin.”

  Under my companion’s scrutiny, I floundered for a response. My Queen was of the isle’s purest blood? She, too, was capable of hieronomy? Why, then, did she not perform her own auguries? Of what use was I? Was her fear of my comprehension an exact expression of her own straits? Knowing and judging her own purposes, did she thereby falsify her ability to scry?

  But I could not burden Excrucia with such concerns. Compelled by her gaze, I summoned a more immediate question. “Gift-kin?” I echoed, striving to regain my wits. “It appears that the term must refer to men and women who share the abilities common to hieronomers and other augurs—and that these abilities are passed from mother and father to child.” Or to grandchild, as in my own case. “You now grasp my interest in lineage.” Then I shook myself, hoping thereby to master my unspoken confusion. “Do you believe that alchemists also are gift-kin?”

  Of alchemy I knew little, but on the instant I felt certain that it required blood, as did my own gifts—blood and heritage.

  My companion nodded without hesitation. “I am sure of it. I can think of no other reason for Indemnie’s alchemists to refuse fealty to any monarch not gifted—or for the barons to support the wishes of their alchemists in such formal and stringent terms. Indeed, the well-being of the realm depends as much on the services of alchemists as on those of hieronomers.”

  As much, I thought, or more. To my poorly informed mind, the services of alchemists appeared both more practical and more reliable than my auguries. By common repute, those services had been essential to the construction of the Domicile. They were also much credited in the formation of Indemnie’s harbors, and in many smaller achievements across the realm.

  While Excrucia studied my visage, I considered my duty to my Queen. And when I had considered it, I replied in a voice made thick by uncertainties, “Then I must speak with an alchemist.”

  Excrucia’s scrutiny of my features became still more acute. At the same time, her tone resumed the aridity of concentration—or perhaps of rigidly suppressed emotion.

  “Nothing could be simpler. I will instruct Vail to summon such a man. Doubtless Vail will not abandon my protection himself. However, he will command others in my name. Some days may pass—alchemists are considered a self-absorbed lot, resistant to compliance—but your wishes will be satisfied.”

  After an unseemly delay, I rallied myself to thank her. She had already done much in my aid. I could hardly estimate the amount of gratitude that she had earned from me. Was she not effectively defying her mother for my sake? She was. Also her very life was in peril. Nevertheless my bewilderments and doubts precluded a profuse expression.

  Her regard did not waver. Her tone did not soften. “Then you must answer a query of mine, as I have answered yours.”

  Earlier I had confessed my motive. Now I could not imagine what further concern might trouble her. Still I felt a lonely man’s desire to be understood. And I was unwilling to spurn my only ally—my only friend. With some difficulty, I murmured, “Name it.”

  “You have spoken of ‘dooms.’” She sounded parched as dust. “Your auguries have revealed that more than one calamity gathers toward Indemnie. What do you fear will fall upon us? What do you fear so extremely that you seek to oppose my mother’s wishes?”

  I was unable to meet her gaze. Speaking to the stained floor, I replied, “They are two. I have performed auguries beyond count, but they do not vary. If we are not enslaved by some power from the east, we will descend to barbarism.”

  Then I conceded, “It may be that other outcomes are possible, but my small gifts do not reveal them. I am my Queen’s Hieronomer. I must believe what I have learned.”

  There I paused, awaiting protests or demands. I imagined that my
companion would wish to know how these catastrophes might befall Indemnie. Indeed, I dreaded such questions. I had no answers that would not cause pain—or occasion disbelief.

  But when it came, Excrucia’s response was not an inquiry. It was an assertion—or perhaps a recognition. “You have spoken of this with my mother.”

  “I have.” Still I confessed myself to the floor. “Indeed, I hold myself culpable for her present policies,” for her manipulations and betrayals, of which her offer of wedlock to all the barons was only the most recent example. “The machinations which now beset Indemnie did not commence until I began to perform my tasks as Her Majesty’s augur.”

  To my surprise, Excrucia favored my accusation with scorn. An angry oath compelled me to face her.

  “Fie, Mayhew! My mother’s deeds and policies are her own. You merely exercise your gifts. You do not determine the use to which she commits your scrying.”

  Confronted by my companion’s ire, I did not disclose what was in my mind. I might have said, My Queen acts as she does because I have made her afraid. But I had given a young girl too many burdens. I did not desire her to bear more.

  Also, as I have said, she was far from dull. I could trust that she would infer more than I expressed.

  Quietly I replied, “She is more than your mother, Excrucia. She is our rightful ruler, charged with sovereignty because we have no other means to live as we do. If we do not understand her, we must nonetheless place our faith in her. We must do so especially when we do not understand.”

  Had Inimica Phlegathon deVry not foreseen that her daughter would require a bodyguard? I had not done so much, though I had bathed my hands in lakes of blood.

  While I watched, Excrucia strove visibly to contain her indignation. After a moment, she retorted, “As you say.” Then she rose to her feet, concealing her visage in her hood once more. More calmly—or perhaps more drily—she added, “I will speak with Vail.” A heartbeat later, she continued, “And I will ask my mother what gain she finds in policies that can only sow discontent, if they do not provoke worse. I will ask her to account for the attempt on my life.”

  She startled me. Indeed, she frightened me. Yet she also prompted me. Without pause for consideration, I returned, “If you would dare so much, dare more. Ask her if she has spies among the baronies. Ask her if she has learned of intended betrayals, of impending rebellions.”

  As the girl turned to depart, she repeated only, “As you say.” Then she was gone.

  Her manner baffled me. She was my Queen’s daughter, therefore proud. At the same time, she was ashamed to be perceived—indeed, to perceive herself—as plain and dull. Therefore she was humble. Also she had a private courage that expanded my bewilderment. I could not grasp the workings of her heart.

  Yet I fretted over graver concerns when my companion had departed. Did my Queen know of her daughter’s alliance with me? Beyond question, Vail knew of it. How could he not? He watched over Excrucia while she slept. Surely he shadowed her every waking step. Thus if his devotion as he saw it belonged to Inimica Phlegathon deVry, he would speak—and I would be lost. But if his post as Excrucia’s bodyguard included his loyalty, he might keep silent and name his silence duty. In that event, I might keep my head yet awhile.

  He had outfaced his monarch’s ire in the aftermath of the attempt on Excrucia’s life. Perhaps, albeit indirectly, he would do as much for me.

  My Queen’s solstice ball remained some fortnights distant, yet while I floundered in uncertainty, apprehension, and wasted blood, events within the Domicile—indeed, movements throughout the realm—appeared to quicken. Inimica Phlegathon deVry forbade unions which one baron or another had approved. She encouraged marriages which the immediate families had declined to countenance. She dismissed contentions which pertained directly to her rule over Indemnie, preferring rather to meddle in matters which properly belonged to individual baronies—matters such as grazing rights and access to timber. Thus she stirred the pot of discontent, usurping the prerogatives of the barons while undermining her own authority.

  Such seeming quirks and misjudgments disturbed me in my laborium, but did not impel my Queen to summon me, either for counsel or for eavesdropping. Other events, however, were more fraught. One such I heard described in converse with scullery-maids and servers and an occasional household guard in the lower eating hall of the Domicile. For a time, the hall was rife with talk that another attempt had been made on Excrucia’s life.

  This was not reported to me by my ally herself. She was occupied elsewhere, perhaps commanded to tasks or ceremonies by her mother, or perhaps restricted to the sanctuary of her chambers. I did not see her. Therefore I knew nothing of her own heart and life, certainly nothing of her efforts at my behest. However, the tale as I retrieved it from overheard snippets, direct queries, and flagrant exaggerations went thus.

  In the aftermath of the first attempt, my Queen and Vail augmented their caution. Several of the household guards were placed at Vail’s disposal. Increased entourages escorted Excrucia’s movements. And either Her Majesty or Vail foresaw that the girl’s food must be tasted—a precaution which would not have entered my head, but which events proved necessary. Some ten days after our discussion of Indemnie’s need, Excrucia’s taster fell violently ill. Fortunately he did not perish, though my Queen’s physician declared poison without hesitation. Alive, the stricken taster offered a degree of guidance to Vail’s investigations. Within hours, the source of the poison was traced to a flask of wine intended for Excrucia’s sole use, she being partial to it. The wine steward and several serving-maids and boys were put to the question. After what some called minor flogging and others described with shudders as crippling torment, one of the younger maids admitted responsibility. Persuaded by her lover, whom she named as the scion of a family in service to Baron Jakob Plinth, she had added a powder both tasteless and potent to Excrucia’s wine. The reason given to the maid—so rumor proclaimed—was a desire to end the rule of the Phlegathon deVrys for the good of the realm. Baron Plinth was widely considered censorious enough to nurture that ambition.

  So much was hearsay rather than confirmed knowledge. Thus I felt entitled to my doubts. Jakob Plinth was known to be dour, stern, strict in honesty, and uxorious to a fault. Among the barons, therefore, he was the man whom I was least inclined to suspect, despite his disapproving acceptance of his sovereign’s proposal. When I had recovered from my alarm on Excrucia’s behalf, I concluded that the use of a man putatively attached to Baron Plinth was a ploy to deflect attention from the true traitor.

  Who then remained to accuse? Praylix Venery I discounted. He would not keep his own secrets—and could not keep another’s. And Quirk Panderman spent his days irredeemably fuddled by drink. As for Glare Estobate, he was wrathful enough to strike any blow, yet I judged him too blunt for subtle treachery. By such reasoning, my suspicions fell on Thrysus Indolent, who had revealed the nature of Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s marriage machinations to Baron Estobate.

  However, my every search by augury for the truth failed. In such matters, I relied chiefly upon chickens. Being simple creatures, their entrails were easily interpreted by such gifts as mine. And to a scrying eye, the light they shed, being likewise simple, promised illumination. Alas, their minds were too simple for my purpose. Lacking awareness, they also lacked subtlety. I had it in my heart to forewarn my Queen, but I found myself unable to confirm my suspicions—or, indeed, to deny them. Though I stewed in intestines, small organs, and worry until I feared that my mind would boil, I learned nothing not already known to me.

  Doom from within Indemnie. Doom from the east. And the policies of Inimica Phlegathon deVry subverted hope with every passing day. They subverted mere comprehension. She had encouraged me to sacrifice a child—a child—but that I would not do. For that reason, I positively required an understanding of alchemy, and of chrism. Also I required spies to counsel me when hieronomy coul
d not. Yet I had none. Therefore I was dependent on Excrucia for further aid—and she was now too closely sequestered to attend me.

  Frustrated beyond endurance, I felt the walls of my laborium crowd close around me until I labored for breath and a foul sweat stood on my brow. When I could no longer suffer the littleness of my domain, I took to wandering the servants’ halls where my presence was permitted, seeking scraps of gossip, rumor, complaint, and speculation concerning events beyond the Domicile—hints which might serve to relieve me. Also I ascended and descended endlessly the passages within the walls, aspiring to some glimpse of my Queen’s dealings—or of her daughter’s circumstances. However, I found no ease until a handful of days had passed. Then I was nearly toppled by alarm when the jangle of a bell summoned me once again to attend upon Indemnie’s ruler unseen.

  Now I did not trouble to compose myself. When my knees had recovered the strength to support me, I flew like a demented bat for the nearest of the Domicile’s hidden stairs.

  As before, I found Her Majesty in the opulent chamber which served as her public boudoir. As always, the meretricious bed and furnishings fostered a feigned suggestion of private comfort, indeed of private pleasure. On this occasion, however, I came belated to my post behind the tapestry which concealed my entrance. My Queen’s visitor had already effected his entry.

  Before Indemnie’s sovereign in all her regal splendor and—as I deemed it—lusciousness stood Baron Thrysus Indolent.

  He was a lean man, slight of stature and homely of visage, yet his lack of ordinary attractions, such as regular features, fine hair, and well-formed limbs, was contradicted by the perfect elegance of his attire, which conveyed both great wealth and unassuming modesty in equal measure. In addition, his manner expressed a supreme assurance inexplicable in a man utterly out-shone by his monarch. As for his eyes, they had demons dancing in their depths, mirth and scorn and appreciation and multiple intentions obliquely commingled. Taken together, his manner and his gaze presented him as a man quick as a fox, sagacious as an owl—and hypnotic as a serpent.