Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools (38 page)

'Stop them!' cried Princess Kerin. 'Do not let them escape!'

Instantly a sea of hands reached up to grab at the mounted soldiers.

'Get your hands off me!' bellowed Captain Tench. 'How dare you? How—?'

But he was pulled head first from the saddle and dragged, kicking and struggling, into the crowd of people. Fists rained down upon him as he fell into their midst and he did not get up again.

'Take their weapons!' yelled Cornelius. 'Take their equines. Find what other weapons you can. People of Keladon, you have been lied to, you have been bled dry by a man who does not deserve to lick the boots of the rightful ruler. But the hour of vengeance is at hand. We go to the palace!'

He flicked the reins and Max started forward slowly, moving with difficulty through the masses of people. They moved aside to let him through, and after a few moments the wagon emerged at the very edge of the crowd. The mounted soldiers lined up on either side of it and behind them pressed their army. Looking around, Sebastian saw that the market stall holders were passing out anything that resembled a weapon, and others were running in and out of their homes, bringing anything they thought would be of use. He saw pitchforks, crossbows, ancient rusting swords and spears that probably hadn't seen service for years.

'It's a pretty motley crew we've gathered,' he observed quietly.

'We've got truth and justice on our side,' said Cornelius. 'Plus, of course, my old favourite. The element of surprise.'

'Think that'll be enough?'

Cornelius grinned. 'Ask me again in a little while,' he said.

Somebody leaned over and handed Sebastian a couple of swords. He passed one of them to Princess Kerin, and as she took it, their eyes met.

'How did I do?' she asked him.

'You were every bit the queen of this land,' he told her. 'These people will follow you anywhere.'

'I just hope I'm not leading them to their doom,' she said. Then she moved to the front of the wagon and steadied herself by clutching the wooden seat in front of her. She held her sword aloft so that everyone could see it.

'People of Keladon!' she cried. 'Forward to victory!'

Cornelius snapped the reins and Max took off at speed. The soldiers urged on their equines and the angry rabble followed, waving their weapons or their fists as they raced along the wide uphill road that led to the palace.

King Septimus was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had risen early, despite a night of drunkenness and gluttony, had eaten a hearty breakfast comprising all his favourite delicacies, had soaked himself in a hot bath steeped in oils and perfumes and, with the help of Malthus, had just finished dressing himself in his finest robes. It certainly felt gratifying to know that he was now the undisputed king of Keladon and that there was nobody around who might challenge him for the throne. He wondered where Princess Kerin was now and amused himself by imagining her dressed in rags, down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of a latrine.

He lounged on a silken sofa in the royal chamber, wondering exactly what he would do with the rest of his day.

'I may pay a visit to the royal treasury later on,' he told Malthus. 'It's quite a while since I went through my coffers and counted up what I own.'

'Four days, sire,' said Malthus, without a trace of irony.

'Hmm. That long? Well—'

'While you are there, sire, you might be kind enough to consider the little matter of my salary.'

'What about it?' growled King Septimus.

'Well, sire, the last time we spoke on the matter, you told me that you might consider actually letting me
have
one.'

Septimus pulled a sour face. 'You mean to tell me, Malthus, that as well as having the illustrious honour of waiting on me, you also expect to be
paid
for it?'

'Yes, sire! Er . . . I mean, no, sire, of course not. I just—'

'Empty out my chamber pot. And before you do so, open the shutters and allow in a little air.'

'Yes, sire.' The manservant hurried across to do his master's bidding. He unlatched the shutters and pulled them back to reveal a beautiful summer morning. There was a clear view of the main road leading downhill to the marketplace, and as Malthus looked out, he saw something unexpected. A crowd of people was coming round the bend in the road. A sizeable crowd. He kept expecting it to fizzle out, but it didn't. There seemed to be rather a lot of people. Thousands of them in fact, and judging by the way they were waving their fists – and what looked like a fearsome collection of weapons – they evidently weren't here to do some sightseeing.

Malthus opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. It had occurred to him that it would be in his best interests to get out of here as quickly as possible and he didn't want a command from the king to keep him in place. So he turned quickly away from the window, grabbed the king's chamber pot and started towards the exit, moving so fast that the contents of the pot began to slop over its sides.

'Malthus, you imbecile, be careful!'

'Sorry, sire.' Malthus didn't slow his pace. He kept right on going.

'What's your hurry, man?'

'A . . . pressing engagement, sire!' And Malthus was out of the door and heading for the stairs. Septimus heard a sudden crash as the chamber pot was discarded in the rush.

'What the . . . ? Malthus? Malthus!'

No reply. The king got to his feet and paced around the room for a moment, sensing that something wasn't quite right. Then a distant sound of shouting voices brought him to the open window. He stared out in complete and utter horror at the great mob of people who were racing towards the palace. Even at this distance he recognized the figure in the bright red dress, standing in the wagon that led the crowd. He opened his mouth in sheer disbelief, not wanting to believe this was happening. Then he snapped back to reality and, turning, he ran out of the room.

The two guards who stood at his doorway jumped smartly to attention.

'Sound the alarm,' cried King Septimus. 'An armed mob approaches the palace. Send the Crimson Cloak up here to defend me – the rest of you, get out there and deal with it. Barricade the doors. They are to be defended with your miserable lives!'

'Yes, sire.' The two men turned and hurried away down the staircase, shouting an alarm.

King Septimus was about to retreat to his quarters but he noticed a frail figure emerging from one of the corridors to his left. It was Magda and she was carrying a large bag over her shoulder, while supporting herself with a stout walking stick.

'Magda,' he said. 'Going somewhere, are we?'

She was evidently not pleased to see him. 'Your majesty!' she cried. 'What a pleasant surprise. I was just . . . er . . . planning to pay a little visit . . . to my . . . mother.'

'Your mother?' King Septimus smiled sweetly. T had no idea your mother was still alive. Why, she must be . . . what? A hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty?'

Magda smiled, showing brown stumps of teeth. 'She
is
a goodly age, sire, and in poor health. She needs my herbs and potions to make her strong. I'll be back in a day or so.'

'Hmm. It wouldn't be the case, would it, that you have gained knowledge of the angry mob that is approaching the palace? The mob led by Princess Kerin. It couldn't be, could it, that you are attempting to run out on me?'

Magda feigned a look of sheer amazement. 'A mob, your majesty? I had no idea!'

'Oh, well then. Fair enough. You didn't know about it. I suppose you'd best get along to your mother, hadn't you?'

'Thank you, sire.' Magda started hobbling towards the staircase as fast as her ancient legs would carry her.

'How are you proposing to get there?' asked King Septimus, drawing closer to her and placing one hand on her shoulder.

She swallowed nervously. I, umm . . . thought I'd take a carriage,' she said quietly.

'Oh, surely not. A woman of your magical talents? I think you'd get there much faster if you employed a more . . . supernatural form of travel.'

'What do you mean, sire?' she asked him.

I mean you should bloody well
fly
!' he roared; and with that, he grabbed the back of her dress with both hands and threw her down the staircase. He watched with interest as her frail body went tumbling and crashing down the marble steps, and noted with a hint of satisfaction that she managed to hit every single one of them on the way.

Her lifeless body came to rest at the feet of a group of armed men wearing deep red cloaks. The king's bodyguard. They looked down in shock at the old woman's sprawled figure.

'Don't just stand there gawking like idiots!' snarled the king. 'Get your idle carcasses up here and form a protective line at the top of these stairs. If anyone tries to get up here, hack them to pieces.'

The men hurried up the stairs to do as they were told. After all, they had sworn to protect the king with their lives, even if he
was
in the habit of throwing little old ladies to their deaths. They turned at the top landing and drew their swords.

'I might as well tell you,' said the king, 'that this rebellion is being led by Princess Kerin. It could be she who leads the attack against you. Put aside any notions of her royal connections. You will treat her as you would treat any other person who threatens the sovereignty of your king. I command it. Now, get to it, you scum. I'll be in my chambers.'

He went back inside and hurried across to the window. The mob was close now – uncomfortably close. He could see the occupants of the wagon: Princess Kerin, holding a sword aloft and shouting like a mad woman; the little Golmiran, gripping the reins and urging that fleabag of a buffalope to go faster; and, crouched at Princess Kerin's side, that meddling breed of a jester.

King Septimus said something very uncouth beneath his breath. Let them try to take him, he thought to himself. He would not go down without a fight.

Down on the bucking, shuddering wagon Sebastian could see the palace doors fast approaching; and as they drew nearer, the doors swung open and ranks of uniformed soldiers came spilling out of it, holding shields and brandishing swords and spears. There seemed to be a lot of them and they were lining up in protective rows right across the courtyard, their shields held out and linked to form what looked like an impenetrable wall of bronze.

The last man out of the doorway had to stoop to avoid bashing his head. It was Klart, the king's champion, clad in heavy body armour and clutching a cudgel the size of a small tree. As he stepped out and took his position, the doors slammed shut behind him, and Sebastian knew that whoever was left inside would be barricading it against the attack.