Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels) (39 page)

So Pendleton, a square-set, portly, blustery type convinced everyone had their price, was supporting democratic reform for now. Pendleton saw himself as an arranger, a fixer, a man who worked behind the scenes to make things happen. He thought he could do this by throwing money at people or problems until they went away. And given the state of the Forest these days, mostly he was right.

The conspiracy’s current and rather unpleasant plan of action called for Sir Robert to set up a small and very secret intrigue, whereby the Shaman would be persuaded to kill both the Queen and the Duke, using his mysterious magic. Sir Robert would then use his skills as a bladesmaster to kill the Shaman. Though a strong supporter of democracy, it was felt by the conspirators that the Shaman was too unstable and too unpredictable to be left running loose afterward. A coalition of business interests would then propose Sir Robert as the new Regent; he was, after all, a famous hero of the Demon War, and he would have been seen to kill the terrible assassin who killed the Queen and the Duke. Nothing could be simpler. And Sir Robert would then, of course, oversee the passing of laws sufficient to weaken the aristocracy and advance the cause of Forest businessmen.

That was the plan that these three had previously brought to Sir Robert. There was, however, a small problem with this plan, as far as Sir Robert was concerned, and that was that the plan was complete and utter garbage. It was stupid, it wouldn’t work, and would quite definitely get them all arrested and beheaded. However, Sir Robert couldn’t just come out and say that. These people were, technically speaking, his superiors. And he’d already taken quite a lot of their money.

“So, how goes our plan?” asked Lady Esther. “How long before we can strike?”

“You can’t rush a conspiracy, my lady,” Sir Robert said smoothly. “The elements must be carefully assembled and examined for flaws.”

“You’ve been paid enough money already,” Pendleton told him. “It’s about time we got something to show for it. Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“Certain problems have arisen, which I feel should be discussed,” said Sir Robert.

“Then by all means lay these problems out before us,” said Sir Morrison. “So that we can put your mind at rest.”

“Well,” began Sir Robert carefully, “first, we have a problem with the Shaman. Which is that he’s crazy. Barking mad and strange with it. While I might be able to persuade him to kill both the Duke and the Queen, by playing on his known populist sympathies and his well-known hatred of the monarchy, and whilst he may have enough magic to take out both targets from a distance, I have a strong feeling he might not stop there. The Shaman hates everyone who isn’t actually a peasant, and once we start him off on a crusade of murder and retribution, God alone knows where he might stop. Presumably the Magus would be able to take him out eventually, but we could be hip deep in dead aristocrats by then.”

“It will be your business to control the Shaman,” said Lady Esther. “If he doesn’t do as he’s told, kill him. You’re a bladesmaster. You passed through the Darkwood with Prince Rupert. You fought in the last great defense of the Forest Castle.”

“The Shaman is something else,” said Sir Robert. “And no one seems at all sure what. My researches suggest he is a much more powerful magician than we suspected. All my swordsmanship won’t do any good if I’m sitting on a lily pad somewhere, gulping down flies and croaking a lot.”

“On the other hand,” said Sir Morrison calmly, “the Throne has never been weaker than it is now. It would be a pity if we failed now through lack of nerve.”

“And there’s all the money we’ve poured into this!” snapped Pendleton.

“Let us assume we find some way to control the Shaman,” said Lady Esther. “Using the Magus or Sir Vivian. Do you have any other objections?”

“Well, yes,” answered Sir Robert. “I can’t help feeling bribes aren’t going to be enough to ensure their compliance, before and after the assassinations. The Magus has never shown any interest in riches, and we don’t have anything else he wants.”

“We will offer him power and a high place in our new regime,” said Sir Morrison.

“He already has that,” Sir Robert pointed out.

“Sir Vivian believes in democracy,” said Lady Esther. “He’s often spoken publicly of the need for political change.”

“Sir Vivian failed to protect King Harald from his assassin,” said Sir Robert. “And he took it very hard. I can’t see him betraying his duty to Harald’s widow, whatever the political reasoning. Sir Vivian is a famously honorable man these days.”

“Then you must kill Sir Vivian!” demanded Pendleton. “Remove him from the gameboard before he can threaten us!”

“Ah,” said Sir Robert. “So as well as killing a possible rogue sorcerer in the Shaman, I am also supposed to kill the legendary hero of Tower Rouge? And for an encore, presumably, I will kill the Magus as well. Lady, gentlemen, I fear you’ve been listening to those terrible songs and sagas about my exploits in the long night. They’re really not all that accurate, you know.”

“If you’re not the hero we paid for,” murmured Sir Morrison, “then what good are you?”

“You’re paying for my experience,” Sir Robert said flatly. “I have survived more death and violence and horror than you can imagine, and I didn’t do that by being stupid. If you wish to proceed with your plan, that’s up to you. I can set it in motion. I’m just pointing out my carefully considered opinion as to why it will almost undoubtedly go horribly wrong and get us all killed. Let us all be very clear about this, lady and gentlemen: We’re only going to get one shot. If we fail, we won’t live long enough to put together a second attempt. It therefore behooves us to make damn sure our plan is waterproof before we begin.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Very well,” said Lady Esther finally. “Do nothing for now. We will consider your words and put together an amended plan. In the meantime we wish you to keep a close eye on Hawk and Fisher. They’re an unknown quantity, and therefore dangerous. We need to know whether it would be best to make a deal with them or have them killed. I take it you could arrange the deaths of two simple Guard Captains?”

Sir Robert shrugged. “They handled the Duke and his thugs easily enough. Let me talk to them before you decide anything. As long as they concentrate on their investigation into the King’s death and show no interest in current politics, I think we can safely ignore them.” He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “I trust I can take it you had no part in Harald’s death?”

“Of course we didn’t!” Pendleton answered hotly. “We might have discussed it occasionally, but Harald was more use to us alive than dead. Alive we could have struck a deal with him. It’s his death that produced the very chaos that makes our desperate measures necessary.”

“Well, quite,” said Sir Robert. “Now, if you will all excuse me, I must be about my business. Can’t have the Court wondering where I am, can we?”

After they were gone, Robert sighed heavily, and poured himself a very large drink. Idiots with their idiotic conspiracies. This was the seventh plan they’d come up with, and it was no obvious improvement on the previous six. He’d known lemmings that were less determined to get themselves killed. Still, as long as he kept shooting down their plans, they’d go on paying him. And he liked to think he was doing his little bit to protect the Throne and the Land along the way. He glanced at the clock on the wall and gulped down his drink. He still had to look in on an old comrade before he got to Court. And whilst he didn’t care for any of his conspirators, Robert would have died before he let down Ennis Page.

Sir Robert strode through the narrow corridors of the servants’ sector of the Castle, and the men and women there bowed respectfully to him as he passed. There had been a time when he could have walked among them unremembered, no different or better than any of them. Sometimes he thought he’d been happier then, as just another guard, with no more concerns than his next week’s wages. But the King knighted him after the Demon War, in recognition of his services, and for a time Sir Robert had been very happy to be a noble and a hero, adored by all. He’d thought the good times would last forever. He should have known better. As a knight, he’d had to put his old friends behind him, and making new ones among his new circle had not been easy. Hero or not, the established aristocracy had little time for arrivistes. You were nobody in their eyes unless your ancestors had been somebody for generations. But having bitten the poisoned apple, Sir Robert couldn’t go back. Once a noble, always a noble, forever separated from those of the lower orders.

Prince Rupert had never cared about such distinctions. But then, Prince Rupert had been a real hero.

Ennis Page had been one of the few other men to fight beside Robert Hawke and Prince Rupert, and still survive to see the end of the long night. He’d fought well, never once buckled under the pressure of the darkness, and killed more than his fair share of demons. A good man, a hero. Mentioned in quite a few songs. But afterward things hadn’t gone at all well for Ennis Page.

Sir Robert finally came to a halt before the door to a servant’s quarters, no different or better than any of the others. He knocked politely, and the door was opened by a small careworn woman who nodded familiarly to Sir Robert. She was just forty, but she looked ten years older. Her clothes were simple and much worn, and her hands were rough from hard work. She beckoned for Sir Robert to come in, and then shut the door quickly behind him. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have been there, and both of them knew it. Inside, it was typical servants’ quarters: one fair-sized room, with a bedroom leading off. Simple furniture, few frills, and no fancies.

“Hello, Rob. Good of you to come. He’s been restless all day.”

“Hello, Maggie. I would have been here sooner, but I got held up. Has he been asking for me?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s you, sometimes me. Now and again he wants Prince Rupert.”

And then they both looked around, startled at a knocking on the door. Sir Robert’s hand dropped to his sword. No one ever came to see Ennis Page but him, which could only mean they were looking for Sir Robert. And why look for him here, unless they wanted to be sure of catching him where no one else could see? Maggie looked at Sir Robert questioningly, catching his mood. There was no other way out. Sir Robert drew his sword, then gestured for Maggie to open the door and then stand well back. She did so, and there framed in the doorway were Hawk and Fisher.

“Looking for me?” asked Sir Robert, not lowering his sword.

“We asked the Seneschal’s guide to find you, and it brought us right here,” said Hawk. He looked at the sword in Sir Robert’s hand, but made no attempt to draw his axe. “I do hope we’re not intruding …”

“Not at all,” said Sir Robert. He put away his sword and everyone relaxed just a little. “Come in, Captains. There’s someone here I think you ought to meet.”

Hawk and Fisher came in, and Maggie shut the door behind them. Sir Robert introduced her to Hawk and Fisher, and she bobbed her head quickly. She didn’t get many visitors. Hawk recognized the name of her husband immediately, but did his best not to show it.

“Ennis Page,” he said, carefully vague. “I think I’ve heard his name in songs about the Demon War. Fought beside Prince Rupert himself, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sir Robert. “He was there. But he didn’t get knighted, like I did. His heroics weren’t conspicuous enough. King Harald granted him some land, off in the back of beyond, but Ennis had to sell it off over the years. He’s been ill ever since the Demon Wars, and healers’ bills don’t come cheap.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Fisher.

“Demon War Syndrome,” said Sir Robert. “Which is typical of healers. Put a name to something, and they think that means they understand it. They don’t. It’s been twelve years, and they’re still no nearer finding anything that will help him. Come and see for yourself.”

Hawk looked at Maggie. “With your permission …”

“Oh, yes. Of course. But don’t expect too much from him. He has his good days and his bad days, and sometimes … sometimes I think not all of him came back from the Demon War. Maybe the best part of him is still lost in the long night.”

They went through into the adjoining bedroom. It was a small room, just big enough for a bed and a chest of drawers. Ennis Page was sitting on a chair by the bed, wearing a gray nightie and a woolen shawl, rocking quietly back and forth. Hawk remembered Page as being about the same age as himself, but the man sitting on the chair before him looked a hundred years older. He’d been a big man once, but he’d been eaten away by time and hurt. His face was heavily lined, his hair was gray, and his hands trembled constantly. He didn’t respond to his visitors. He was staring at nothing, or perhaps the past he could never forget. A thin line of drool hung from one corner of his mouth, and Maggie hurried forward to wipe it away with a cloth.

“Dear God,” said Hawk.

“There are a lot of people like him,” said Sir Robert. “People who were hurt by the long night and never got over it. Ennis was a trained fighter, but nothing could prepare him for the horrors he encountered under the Blue Moon. He saw terrible things, and did worse just to survive. The dark of the long night was a spiritual darkness, as well as a physical threat, and in the end it broke him. Broke his body and his mind and his spirit. He was a good man once. Just the sort you’d want watching your back in a scrap. Brave and honorable; a canny warrior with a great booming laugh. Now this poor shadow is all that’s left of him. A lot of men who followed Prince Rupert to be a hero got lost in the dark and never came home.”

“I never knew,” said Hawk.

“No reason why you should. But there are a lot like him, in homes all across the Land, looked after by their loved ones. People who never recovered from the oppression of the long night. Old before their time, wandered in their wits. Demon War Syndrome. Never mentioned in any of the songs or sagas.”

“They still sing songs about my Ennis,” said Maggie, almost defiantly. “My Ennis, who fought beside the Prince. And the late King provided us a pension after he heard our money had run out.” She looked fondly, sadly, at her husband sitting rocking on his chair. “Some days he’s quite bright. Knows who he is, who I am, takes an interest in my day. I clean, you see. Now and again we go for short walks, up and down the corridor. Never outside. He only feels safe inside walls, well away from the Forest he remembers. He hasn’t seen sun or moon in twelve years. Sudden noises panic him. He doesn’t like being alone. I get someone to sit with him when I’m out.”