Fool's Errand (35 page)

Mordecai did not think it gave her the appearance of a proper Erok maiden. He thought it gave her the appearance of a big-nosed idiot.

He gave his head a rueful shake. As was so often the case these days when he was in the company of some hapless female who'd been thrust at him by her minor noble family in the hope of gaining some advantage, he found himself thinking of the Princess Persephone. He smiled now at the memory of her on the floor at his feet—struggling futilely, begging him not to kill the cockroach, promising him that she'd do
anything
. The princess did not have a big nose, and she was anything
but
an idiot.

Still smiling faintly as the memory of her on her knees slowly faded from his mind's eye, Mordecai noticed that the big-nosed idiot was smiling tentatively at her plate.

“Why are
you
smiling?” he snapped.

The idiot stopped smiling at once.

“Eat your cake,” he muttered. “It is almost time for the king and his betrothed to step out onto the Grand Balcony to present themselves to the rabble beyond the palace walls, and after they have done so, I shall retire for the evening.”

“And … and I?” gulped the girl, looking at him directly for the first time.

Mordecai moodily shrugged his narrow, crooked shoulders. She was no princess, but she was noble and as willing as he was likely to find in his present condition.

“You shall retire with me.”

Shortly after this tiresome exchange, the lords and ladies in the Great Hall toasted the betrothed couple one final time before rising to their pampered feet. Most made their way out of doors to find a spot in the courtyard below the Grand Balcony. The king, Lady Aurelia, her father, her brother and a select group of courtiers made their way upstairs to the balcony itself. Mordecai was, of course, part of this group.

He waited until the celebratory fireworks had begun and the king was about to step onto the balcony to draw him aside and inform him that within the next fortnight, the Council would come to him recommending that he, Mordecai, be named heir to the Erok throne.

“And when they do,” said Mordecai, “you shall give royal assent and thereafter present me to one and all as your successor.”

The king—who was so exhausted that he had large, dark circles under his thickly lashed blue eyes—went very still at these words. “My father-in-law-to-be is. an influential member of Council, Your Grace,” he said, his breath coming in short gasps. “I do not think. he will support your bid to be named heir.”

“On the contrary, I have his word of honour that he
will
support it,” replied Mordecai with a meaningful glance at Lady Aurelia, who was standing at the threshold of the balcony crying out in ostentatious delight at the fireworks and revelling in the sycophantic attentions of those young noblewomen who'd managed to choke down their jealousy in order to curry favour with she who would shortly become queen.

Smiling slightly and with only a trace of bitterness, King Finnius nodded his dawning understanding of the new and far more dangerous situation in which he found himself. “May I ask. why you are telling me this now, Your Grace?”

“In the admittedly unlikely event that Lord Bartok decides to make the Council aware of his support for me sooner rather than later, I did not want you to be so surprised by the forthcoming suggestion that you failed to act exactly as I would wish,” explained Mordecai. “For as I am sure you can imagine, anything less than your full support in this matter will result in severe consequences for those you care most about.”

“And what of the consequences for my sister if I give you my support in this matter—what of the consequences for me?” said the king as he raised a finger to his impatient betrothed to indicate that he'd be with her momentarily.

Mordecai thought he saw a flicker of something in the fool's unwavering gaze, but it was gone before he could be sure. “The consequences for you and your sister, Your Majesty?” he said in an utterly baffled voice. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean. What possible consequence for the two of you could come from me being named heir to the Erok throne?”

THIRTY-FIVE

^“
H
E'S NOT AS STUPID
as he looks, apparently,” chuckled Mordecai late the following evening as he lounged in his comfortable chair looking down at the cow.

“The king does not look stupid,” mooed the one named Moira, who was lounging in a most unpleasant mixture of rat droppings, rotting straw and her own disgusting filth.

“He does,” insisted Mordecai. “Not as stupid as you, of course. But stupid all the same.”

Mordecai smiled. He did not really think that the king looked stupid, but he knew that saying so would upset the fool's former nursemaid.

Unfortunately, she did not look the least upset. “I expect that His Majesty looked very fine in his betrothal outfit,” she said with a smile of genuine pleasure. “Tall and handsome.”

“He looked well enough—for a walking invalid,” snapped Mordecai, his own smile vanishing.

The cow's brow furrowed slightly at this, but all she said was, “Knowing the great Lord Bartok, I'll warrant it was a magnificent betrothal feast.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Mordecai was about to snarl that the feast had been as magnificent as a puddle of piss in a chamber pot when it occurred to him that this was perhaps the very reaction she was trying to provoke. So instead, he leaned back in his chair, patted his nonexistent belly and sighed, “It was such a feast that I confess I am yet feeling the effects of having overindulged in all that rich food and fine wine. Moreover, I'm still so tired that I cannot wait to slip on my silken nightshirt and climb into my luxurious bed.” He affected a petulant pout before adding, “You do not know what it is like to have to attend feasts and fireworks and festivities in addition to ruling a kingdom. You get to sit around here all day doing nothing!”

The cow's only response was to smile faintly as she used the back of her four-fingered hand to scratch her peasant nose. The chains that shackled her to the glistening stone wall clinked softly as she did so.

“The king never mentions you, you know,” confided Mordecai, jerking his crumpled foot away from a rat that had silently scuttled out of the shadows to investigate. “Strange, isn't it?” When the nursemaid did not respond to this taunt, Mordecai continued. “I think perhaps it is because you've been replaced. For years I tried to get the king to see that servants are replaced as easily as smashed dinner plates, and it seems I've succeeded at last. He's taken a real fancy to the slattern who has taken your place. Indeed, at the risk of hurting your feelings, I'd say he appears to care for her even more than he cared for you!”

“I am pleased to hear that His Majesty has a servant for whom he cares,” murmured Moira.

“I wouldn't be too glad if I were you,” snapped Mordecai, “for I've a feeling she'll not be serving him for long. Why, only yesterday she behaved in such an unseemly manner that I found myself seriously considering slashing her face and cutting out her tongue. But perhaps I'll do neither of those things—perhaps I'll cut off her fingers instead. Just as I cut off one of yours—just as I cut off those of the idiot barber who gave me this cut.” Mordecai pointed to the nick on his chin. “Well, to be fair, I didn't cut off
all
of the barber's fingers. He cut off most of them—with his own razor. I only cut off the last few, since he hadn't fingers enough left to hold the razor.”

Moira did not shudder or cringe upon hearing Mordecai's juicy description of the fate that had befallen the poor barber. Instead, she said, “Are you going to murder the king once you've been named heir?”

Pleased to have come back round to this most satisfying topic, Mordecai smiled. “Murder is such an ugly word,” he said with a philosophical wave of his gnarled hand. “I prefer to think of it as helping along the natural course of events. For, as it happens, the king grows sicker by the day.”

“Sicker?” echoed the nursemaid, anxiety plain upon her gaunt, dirty face.

“Oh, yes,” said Mordecai with relish. “He's lost a great deal of weight and the cough that ever plagues him could only be worse if the blood he spit up with each wracking fit were to choke off his ability to breathe altogether—”

“The princess and her Gypsy lover will find the Pool of Genezing!” burst Moira, straining against her bonds as though she'd be able to do something more heroic than fall face-first into the muck if she somehow managed to break free of them. “They will return to Parthania—they will lead His Majesty to the healing waters, and he will be cured!”

Mordecai gritted his teeth against the urge to shriek that the cockroach was
not
the princess's lover! “Even if they find the pool and are foolish enough to return to Parthania, it will do the king no good at all. I cannot risk killing him any time soon for fear that word of his death would reach the princess, inspiring her to abandon her quest for the pool,” he said, his heart clenching at the thought. “But you may rest assured that your beloved Majesty will be dead within days—nay, within hours!—of the princess's return.”

“Lord Bartok will be anticipating such treachery,” said Moira. “He will take steps to prevent you from harming the king.”

“He will—but only until his daughter gives birth and he's able to get himself named the royal child's Lord Regent,” said Mordecai, smiling at her feeble attempt to cause him distress. “At such time, he'll want the king dead every bit as much as I will—and he'll want me dead along with him. Most unfortunately for Lord Bartok, however, such a time shall never come because the king will never have the chance to get a child upon Lady Aurelia. Regrettably, the much-anticipated royal wedding will suffer setback after setback until, on the very eve of the grand event, when the long-lost princess has returned and all seems to be in readiness, the poor sick king shall die in his sleep, suffocated by his own bloody phlegm.”

The nursemaid could not help drawing back in horror. “You will smother him,” she gasped.

“I will slip a powerful sleeping draught into his evening wine,” explained Mordecai. “Then, after I have sent the alarmed servants running for the court physicians that they might examine the cause of the king's inexplicable loss of consciousness, I will hold a pillow over his face until he breathes no more.”

“Everyone will suspect.”

“But no one will know,” said Mordecai. “And even if they did, what could they do? I will be a king ascended to the throne with the declared approval of the great lords and the support of a vast army of New Men loyal to none but me.”

“And what will happen to the princess?”

“If she failed to find the healing pool, one day very soon after the king's tragic demise, while she is out riding in a vain effort to find respite from her terrible grief, she shall be waylaid by brigands, relieved of that little dagger she is so fond of carrying around and stabbed in her own faithless heart with it.”

“And if she succeeded?” asked Moira in a low voice. “If she found the healing pool?”

Mordecai smiled broadly. “The same, I think.”

For a long moment the cow said nothing. Then she said, “Your Grace, I beg you not to do these terrible things.” Laboriously manoeuvring herself up onto her now-bony old knees, she bowed so low that her stringy grey hair brushed the muck. “Spare the king and the princess and I … I will willingly die the most agonizing death you can possibly conceive of.”

Though Mordecai longed to laugh aloud at the suggestion that her miserable lowborn life was worth the lives of not one but
two
royals, he did not. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and tapped his chin as though contemplating her offer.

“You will do that anyway,” he said at last.

Then he rose to his feet, took the torch from the wall bracket and slowly lurched out of the cell, leaving her in darkness.