Fool's Errand (40 page)

Mordecai forced himself to nod politely.

Lord Bartok did not return the courtesy.

“Can I help you, Your Grace?” he asked, his pale blue eyes drifting to the beads of sweat on Mordecai's brow.

Resisting the urge to wipe his brow—or, indeed, to claw out the eyes that were regarding it with such distaste—Mordecai took a deep breath and said, “My lord … the king is gone.”

Instead of gasping in shock or demanding details or insisting that they immediately raise the alarm, Lord Bartok smiled indulgently and said, “Yes, I know.”

Mordecai felt as though a giant hand had just squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

“What … what do you mean you
know?
” he asked breathlessly.

Lord Bartok smiled again. “The king and Aurelia have gone on a short progress, Your Grace, their intended final stop being my country estate near the town of Wickendale,” he explained. “They thought it might be nice for the country people to get a glimpse of the royal-couple-to-be. They also felt that time alone beyond the prying eyes of the court would give them an opportunity to get to know one another a little better. His Majesty was reluctant at first—for some strange reason, he thought you'd disapprove—but I pointed out to him that he is the king and must therefore do as he pleases.”

“He should have informed me of his plans,” snapped Mordecai.

Wrinkling his patrician nose at Mordecai's uncouth tone, Lord Bartok reached into his doublet, withdrew a piece of rolled parchment and handed it over. Breaking the seal—which was unquestionably the king's own—Mordecai immediately noted that the letter had been written in the king's hand and dated the previous day.

“Why did I not receive this earlier?” he demanded.

“An unfortunate oversight, Your Grace,” said Lord Bartok with an elegant shrug.

Mordecai could feel the blood pounding hot and hard at his temple. “And why is it that no one in attendance to the king knew where he'd gone?” he asked, biting off each word.

“That was my idea,” confided Lord Bartok. “I feared that if certain members of the court knew that King Finnius and Aurelia were going on a progress, they'd beg to be allowed to accompany them, and the poor children would have no peace at all. So I convinced the king to disguise himself until he was beyond the city walls.”

Clenching his gnarled hands into fists, Mordecai struggled to control himself. He'd known that Bartok would move against him, of course, but he'd never imagined that he'd
dare
to kidnap the king. Oh, he'd done it so cleverly that no one would ever be able to accuse him of treason, but he'd done it all the same, and now Bartok controlled the royal fool. It was a staggering blow to Mordecai, for if he did not have the king, he could not threaten him into doing his bidding. Bartok wouldn't care if the nursemaid was left to starve and ten thousand lowborn infants were butchered—and he'd have every reason to be
pleased
if the princess was beheaded.

“Your Grace, you appear distressed by this news,” murmured Lord Bartok, frowning slightly as his eyes once again drifted to Mordecai's sweaty brow. “I assure you that you've no cause to be. Our bargain still stands; my only thought in this matter was the happiness of the king and my daughter. In due course, they shall reach my estate, and if Your Grace wishes, we can always ride forth and meet them there.”

Mordecai longed to shriek an order to have the king returned to the imperial palace at once. However, he could not be certain that Bartok would comply, and he did not wish to clash openly with the man while there was yet a chance he intended to uphold his end of their bargain.

And so, instead of shrieking, Mordecai bared his beautiful teeth and said, “My lord, a visit to your northern estate would be a welcome respite from my many duties.”

Smiling faintly, Lord Bartok nodded and, using the same gesture he'd used on the minor lords, he indicated that Mordecai should proceed into the Council chamber.

Deciding that being reduced to pulp was too kind a fate for the smug, silver-haired bastard, Mordecai nodded tersely, lifted his heavy head and shuffled forward to greet the waiting noblemen.

After announcing that the king and Lady Aurelia had gone on a short progress—and announcing it in a manner that implied that the progress not only had his blessing but had been his idea—Mordecai brought up the subject of succession to test Lord Bartok.

To his astonishment, the nobleman immediately rose to his feet, nodded respectfully toward the head of the table and proceeded to speak eloquently and at great length about the need to settle the issue as soon as may be.

With rising excitement, Mordecai waited for him to get to the point—to tell Council that they ought to do what the king had (purportedly) wanted them to do all along and name Mordecai heir.

Unfortunately, having Lord Bartok champion his cause backfired in a way that Mordecai had not seen coming. Because while the great lords would never have dared to speak freely ifit had been Mordecai who'd raised the issue of succession, they apparently felt entirely comfortable doing so when it was one of their own who'd raised it. Nothing was as it once was, they said. Wasn't the king betrothed now? Wouldn't the royal wedding soon take place? Wouldn't a royal infant follow shortly thereafter? And what about the Princess Persephone? Even if something were to happen to the king before he was able to get a child upon his queen, there was always his long-lost sister, wasn't there? Where
was
the Princess Persephone, by the way? Have you had any word from her, Your Grace?

“I have,” lied Mordecai who was white-lipped and trembling with rage. “The princess is well, but as I have told you before, she has no interest in the throne.”

“Yes, as
you
have told us, Your Grace said Lord Bartok, half to himself.

Mordecai stiffened at once. “Do you have something you wish to say, my lord?” he asked coldly.

Lord Bartok made a great show of hesitating. “I … only wonder if my fellow noblemen would be more comfortable addressing the issue of succession if they were able to hear the
princess
say that she has no interest in the throne,” he said in a voice that suggested he was deeply embarrassed by his fellow noblemen's lack of faith in the words of their lord Regent.

A murmur of consternation went up around the table.

Mordecai stared at Bartok, trying to figure out what he was up to. “Very well,” he said after a long moment. “I shall write to the princess with a request that she send a letter to Council confirming—”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” interrupted Lord Bartok with an apologetic shrug, “but no one knows what the princess's handwriting looks like—if she even knows how to write at all. I daresay the only thing that would assuage the concerns of my fellow noblemen would be if the princess were to come to Parthania and address Council in person. Isn't that right, my lords?”

It was clear from the alarmed expressions on the faces of most of Bartok's “fellow noblemen” that they understood they'd just been tossed into the middle of something dangerous and that they weren't sure which way to jump. To agree with the powerful Lord Bartok was to make an enemy of the most feared man in the kingdom; to disagree with Lord Bartok was to make an enemy of the father-in-law of the king.

And so the noblemen neither agreed nor disagreed with Lord Bartok. Instead, they stared at the tabletop and prayed they'd not be singled out to speak.

Breathing hard, Mordecai wondered for the thousandth time how it was that the Fates could have given health and high birth to this contemptible collection of worms while withholding both from someone like him. Indeed, the only one among them that wasn't a worm was Bartok—and he was a snake.

But he was a snake who held many cards at the moment. He was in possession of the king, he had a daughter destined to be queen, and he held sway over nearly every great lord in the realm.

And that is why, although Mordecai longed to see him torn to pieces for daring to blindside him with this troublesome delay tactic, he merely shrugged as though the issue was of minor importance and said, “I suppose there'd be no harm in writing to the princess to ask if she'd be willing to address Council.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” murmured Lord Bartok with a wintery smile.

Mordecai smiled back.

However many cards Bartok held, the game was not over yet.

FORTY-ONE

Eighty-two white beans left in the jar

P
ERSEPHONE SCREAMED
the whole long way down from the sweaty arms of the leering sailor to the surface of the sea. Plunging deep into the brisk, salty water, she twisted and wriggled like a confused mermaid for what seemed like an eternity before finally managing to orient herself in the direction of the light. Swimming hard toward it, she surfaced just in time to see Azriel—who was running along the starboard railing with the grace of an acrobat—make one final sword lunge at the sailors from whom he'd somehow broken free. He then turned and launched himself overboard, flinging his sword seaward as he did so.

Even before he hit the water, Persephone heard the captain bellow an order to lift anchor. The sailors jumped to obey so quickly that by the time Azriel surfaced next to her, the ship was already moving.

For a long, silent moment the two of them just floated upon the gently rising and falling swells watching their passage back to the mainland sail away without them. Then, in a mild voice, Azriel said, “I don't recall the captain saying he'd sail away and leave us to our fate if he discovered that one of us was a beautiful woman, do you, Percy?”

Too anxious to even
think
about smiling, Persephone shook her head and said, “Azriel, what are we going to do now?”

“Now?” he replied, squinting against the reflected sunlight that was making his eyes sparkle like sapphires. “Now, we are going to swim.”

Though they struck out strongly and swam for what seemed like a very long time, the island that had appeared so close from the ship deck did not seem to be getting any closer. More concerning still, the swells that had been so gentle at first were getting bigger and more powerful with each passing moment.

“How … how much … farther, do you think?” panted Persephone, rolling onto her back to rest and catch her breath.

“I don't know,” said Azriel, eyeing her exhausted form with obvious trepidation. Swimming hard, he caught the next big wave and rode it to its zenith that he might get a better view of what lay before them. Persephone felt a flutter of apprehension as another wave rolled between them, blocking her view of him. When the wave passed, she saw that although Azriel had been carried almost fifteen feet away from her, he was grinning with relief. “The waves all seem to be cresting up ahead. That must mean we're almost at the reef!” he shouted as he started swimming back toward her. “It looks a little, uh, challenging, but if we can get past it safely, we'll be in a lagoon and after that—”