The Merchant Adventurer (20 page)

Boltac continued, “I hired them NOT to fight you. Less risk. Cheaper that way. In fact, I made them all citizens. Gave them each a nice plot of land, reclaiming an area that had been recently terrorized by an Evil Wizard and his creations.”

Weeveston asked, “What happened to the Wizard? What have you done with Dimsbury?”

“Ennh, Magic was a dangerous business while it lasted. But, here’s the thing. Just ‘cause I’m not paying these guys, doesn’t mean they can’t rip you limb from limb for their own enjoyment.”

The men cheered.

“So, I suggest you turn around and walk back the way you came as quickly as possible. You could even run.”

Deeply affronted, Torvalds exclaimed, “You are stealing our horses?”

“Oh, no, Kings don’t steal. Kings
never
steal. Your horses have either been commandeered. Or appropriated. But stolen, don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are a vile little man!” said Torvalds

“Your Highness,” said Boltac.

“What?” sputtered Torvalds.

“‘You are a vile little man, your
Highness
.’ You forgot to add ‘your Highness’. Very bad to do this when addressing a King.”

“Enough of this madness!” Torvalds drew his sword, lifting it for a swing that would surely have cleaved Boltac in two. But before the sword could start forward, a foot of steel emerged from Torvalds’ belly. Behind him, Laughlin put his knee on Torvalds’ Shining™ Armor and recovered his dirk. Blood sputtered from Torvalds’ lips as he collapsed to his knees. He fell to the ground at Boltac’s feet. Weeveston looked on in wide-eyed horror.

“What a waste,” said Boltac shaking his head. Then he put a sympathetic hand on Weeveston’s shoulder and walked him away, “You don’t need to look at that, trust me.”

As they walked south Boltac said, “Look, Weeveston, if that’s even your real name, we’ve got easily defensible mountain passes. We’re on the trade road to everywhere. And now we’ve got our own Kingdom. We’d like to be friends with everybody, you understand. Friends and trading partners. ‘Cause it’s good for business. Anger, bad blood, ancient feuds–all of that garbage is bad for business, right? So, before I let you go, I gotta know. Do you want to be my friend?”

Pale and shaking, Weeveston looked behind him. Laughlin was wiping Uncle Torvalds blood from his dirk. He smiled again.

“I do. I do want to be friends,” Weeveston said, looking around nervously.

“I do want to be friends, what?”

“What?” asked Weeveston, truly not understanding.

“No. Not what. What do you say?”

“Oh, I do want to be friends, your H-h-h-highness?”

“Okay then. Shake hands and run along.”

“I’m not sure you are supposed to shake hands with a King.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m not that kind of King.”

Boltac shook Weeveston’s soft hand and watched him scurry south as fast as his expensive shoes would allow. From beside him, Boltac heard Laughlin chuckle. The big man made a clicking noise with his tongue as he shook his head.

“You know they will come for you,” said Laughlin.

“En-henh,” said Boltac. He looked at Laughlin and said, “And you know they’re gonna to come for you too.”

Laughlin smiled again. A smile that had survived a countless fights and endless miles of contested ground. He shrugged and said, “It will be expensive for them, either way.”

“En-henh,” said Boltac.

Rattick leered at the serving boy who writhed through the crowded, smoke filled-room. Then he threw him a coin and motioned for another bottle of wine. He raised his half-empty glass in a silent toast to the unlucky man whose stolen purse was funding his party. Fate might have reduced him to a simple cutpurse, but so far, his new station was treating him well.

Rattick never saw it coming. He didn’t hear the thock of the leather-covered sap that hit him across the back of his head. He never felt the rough hands that deposited him in the back of the wagon. He was unaware of the hard gallop north.

When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was a tremendous headache. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the back of a canvas-covered wagon. Rattick wondered where the serving boy had gone. Then he wondered where the inn had gone. When he saw fog blowing through the gaps in the canvas he wondered where the entire city of Shatnapur had gone. A chill came over him. The cold. The fog. That’s when he knew he was headed back to Robrecht.

He attempted to roll over and discovered that he was bound hand and foot. He struggled and shouted, but nothing came of it, so he gave up and went back to sleep. The next time he awoke it was to the sound of horse hooves ringing on cobblestones. He was taken from the back of the wagon like a sack of grain and deposited in front of a stable. One of his captors, a swarthy man who flashed gold teeth at Rattick when he smiled, cut him free with a well-used dirk.

The man said, “Wash yourself. You are to appear before the King.”

“King?” ask Rattick. He surveyed the courtyard of Robrecht’s central keep. “This isn’t a Kingdom.”

The man in the bandanna cuffed him across the mouth and said, “Don’t speak ill of your King. One might get the idea that you’re a traitor.” The he laughed, flashing his gold teeth again. Rattick licked the raw place the cuff left on his mouth. He estimated how much he would sell this man’s gold teeth for after he had killed him.

But not yet. First he must figure out what was going on here. Then somehow win his freedom. Then insinuate himself into this soldier’s confidence. Then betray him. Slip the knife in when he least expected it. A few sharp jerks with a pair of pliers and then away.

But what was going on here? He saw more fighters coming and going in the courtyard. That would suggest that Robrecht had been overrun. The place should have been raped and pillaged out of existence by now. But the city was strangely intact.

“Clean yourself,” the man in the bandanna said again, prodding him towards the water in the horse trough.

Rattick rubbed his jaw with the cold water in the basin to ease the sting of the rising bruise. Then he washed himself as best he could. Before he could finish, two soldiers had grabbed him by the arms and hauled him into the castle. Doors, rooms, hallways, all passed in a blur until finally Rattick was thrown onto the floor of a large room. Behind him, he heard a man say, “Rattick, a man not to be trusted.” Rattick turned and saw a man in formal dress holding himself perfectly erect. The man did not return Rattick’s gaze, but instead looked unwaveringly toward the front of the room.

When Rattick followed the Chamberlain’s gaze, he saw Boltac standing before the throne, wearing something that looked like a crown. “Ha,” Rattick said.

“You should have more respect when addressing the King,” someone said from off to the side. He turned his head to the left and there was Relan, dressed in fine clothing and wearing a polished breastplate that featured a rampant… eelpout? What in the hell was going on here?

“I thought I killed you. I’m sure I killed you,” said Rattick.

“En-henh, maybe you’re slipping in your old age Rattick. Maybe it’s time you considered a new line of work.”

“While the loss would wound me deeply, how is it that you are not dead? Why has the Empire seen fit to let a Merchant play Kinglet with its property.”

“Because I’m cunning and I know how to buy things cheap. Any more questions?”

“And how is it I am not dead?”

Boltac rolled his head to one side and squinted. “From the look of it, I’d say you’re not dead because you’ve got a very thick skull. That and I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“A proposition,” Rattick said, getting to his feet.

“Well, Rattick, it’s like this,” Boltac said. “Turns out, I’m a King after all.”

“Ha,” said Rattick.

“I know, no one is more surprised than I am. But here we are and the only thing to do is make the best of it. So, I’d like to make you my first Minister.”

“What! This snake? He would not be a Good and Loyal Minister,” protested Relan.

“Exactly. Precisely. Just when I think you are hopeless, kid, you show a glimmer of real intelligence.”

“You could never trust him,” said Relan.

“You
could
trust your loyal and humble servant,” said Rattick, bowing low and glaring at Relan.

“See, that’s just it. I’m not going to trust him. That’s where everybody goes wrong in this King game. They start trusting their advisors and then bango, they are betrayed. And they wind up with their heads on pikes and confused looks on their faces as the crows peck out their eyeballs.

“I don’t want to trust him. I want him to try everything he possibly can. If I’m safe against my ‘friends’, I will certainly be safe against my enemies.”

“My Lord, I am at your service,” said Rattick as he bowed even lower this time.

“Skip the sarcasm, Rattick. I’m a King now, so it’s not Lord. It’s Your Highness.”

“King Boltac?” Rattick asked.

“What did I just tell you about the sarcasm? See Relan? Do you see what a wonderful Disloyal Minister he makes? Now come here, Rattick; kneel so you can receive your badge of office.”

“You mean you are not going to have me killed? You really mean to do this? Appoint me as Minister to your court?”

“Disloyal Minister. Minister of Disloyalty and Sedition. We can work out the title later, but yes, yeah, you slippery bastard. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

Rattick knelt and said, “This is going to be a very different sort of Kingdom, my liege.” This time there was not the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes, it is. There’s no Magic anymore, Rattick. So who knows where the progress will stop.” Then Boltac draped a robe of office around Rattick’s shoulders.

Rattick said, “Progress is Magic, my liege.”

“Well spoken, Rattick. Although I distrust your flattery.”

“You are right to do so, my liege.”

“Now, arise, my Disloyal Minister. You have the run of the keep. But if you try to leave and get caught, you’ll be killed. So either stick around or be really sneaky. Preferably both.”

“Sire, my first advice as Minister is to be rid of this peasant. This ox is more useful to you as a martyr than as a, a, a, what is he? Errand boy? Valet?””

“Why just look at him Rattick. He’s the Hero, anybody can see that.”

“Hero? How can he be the Hero? He’s not even a Knight.”

“Excellent point, Rattick!” Boltac turned to Relan, “See how useful this guy is?”

“He is a bad man,” said Relan.

“You think you rule a Kingdom by being Mr. Nice Guy all the time? Now get over here and take a knee, so I can Knight you.”

“A Knight? How can I be a Knight? Don’t I have to be a squire first?”

Boltac smiled at the Farm Boy, still so innocent in the ways of the world, and oblivious to what had happened, “I’m a King, and I didn’t have to be a Prince first.

“But I don’t know anything about being a Knight!”

“I don’t know anything about being a King, so we’ll both figure it out as we go along.”

“I don’t think this is a very good idea. I’m really not comfortable–”

“En-henh,” said Boltac, “So you know the first rule of being a Knight?”

“No, see, I don’t even know what the first rule is!”

“The first rule is you obey the King.”

“Right,” Relan nodded. “Obey the King.”

“Now kneel and hold still so I can knight you.”

“To Knight him you need a sword,” said Rattick, “Shall I go get a blade for you?”

“Wrong again, Rattick. You are a natural at this job. No swords. No more disguising a fancy club by calling it a scepter.” Boltac picked up an ornate scale from a stand beside the throne. Boltac carefully touched Relan on one shoulder and then the next. Then he said, “Deal fairly with all. Now arise, Sir Relan, first Knight of Robrecht.”

“But…” protested Relan.

“Obey!” said the King. After Relan stood Boltac said, “Congratulations, the both of you. Sir Relan, I expect great things from you. Minister, I expect horrible things from you. The good and the bad. Now get outta here. Both of you. You too, Chamberlain. No more visitors. Court’s closed.”

As they left the room Asarah entered.

Boltac smiled at her and asked, “And where have you been?”

“Well, my liege,” she said with a playful curtsy, “I have been surveying our new home. And I have learned something very important about it. It is very damp.”

“Damp?”

“Damp. Moisture from the river seems to creep up the stones. This place is frightfully clammy. If I didn’t know better, I would say that it was enchanted. Cursed even.”

“So, it just needs a good airing out, maybe?”

Asarah laughed. “Oh, no. No, no, no. This place is not homey at all. It will not do. Drafty, damp, strong-looking on the outside but in no way impressive or refined. Perhaps it is enough for a second-rate Duke, but for a King…” She tsked. “It will not do. We must build you a castle, my liege.”

Boltac sighed. All of a sudden he felt very tired. Everyone turning to him, asking what should be done. Always more questions, more problems and fewer answers. Was he even doing any of this right? Was this what being a King was all about? Now that he had time to think about it, he wondered if he’d ever get the hang of it.

He walked over to the wooden throne and sat down on it heavily. “Ennh,” he said, listening to the creaking and feeling the sharp edges of the chair bite into his legs. “This chair is not a quality item.”

“Well, have another one made.” She took his hand and nodded encouragingly at him. “After all, you are a King now. You get to have things the way you want them.”

“If we have to build a new castle, I’m not sure I can afford things the way I want them.”

She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Don’t be cheap. It’s unbecoming of your station.”

“Enh-henh,” he said. Then he kissed her and, for a moment, forgot all the worries of being a King.