The Robe of Skulls (3 page)

Gubble, ink dripping off the end of his nose, opened and shut his mouth a few times in the hope that something clever might come out. Nothing did. “Ah,” he said at last. “Gold pieces is good, Your Evilness. Very good. Very,
very
good.”

“And my plan, Gubble!” Lady Lamorna began to tap her foot in an ominous fashion. “My plan — isn’t
that
good?”

Gubble did his best to think what plan she was talking about. As he could only think of one, he settled for that. “Yeah. Yeah, Your Evilness. The frog plan is good. I likes the frog plan.” The foot stopped tapping and Gubble relaxed. “Fantasticult, that plan is. Prince.
Zap!
Frog.” A wide grin spread over his face.

“Gubble,” said Lady Lamorna, “I do believe losing your head has made you more intelligent. Well done. Now, we must set off tomorrow morning early.” She glanced at her map. “I suggest we start with the Kingdom of Dreghorn. It’s by far the nearest. You go and prepare everything we need for our journey, and I will make my own preparations for my disguise.” She gathered up the map and handed it to Gubble with a flourish. “Here, take care of this. Do
not
lose it! It is at least a hundred years since I last left this castle, and my memory may fail me. So many of these foolish little kingdoms have sprung up of late. Now, after Dreghorn we will go to Wadingburn, and so on and so on until our mission is complete. Oh — and Gubble — be sure to bring a donkey. Or even two. The gold will be heavy!” And Lady Lamorna swept away, rubbing her bony hands together in anticipation of the enormous wealth to come.

Gubble was left standing in a puddle of black ink and blacker confusion. He scratched his ear, but it didn’t help. He began to scratch the other ear, but the map got in his way. “Umph,” he said crossly. He screwed up the sheet of parchment and stuffed it into his mouth, then scratched the other ear thoroughly. “Donkeys,” he said. “Donkeys. Must pack donkeys.”

And with a gloomy feeling that there was a great deal more to it than donkeys, he stomped off to help himself to two sturdy animals from the nearest farm. Behind him, Great-Grandmother Lamorna arranged her bones more comfortably in her coffin and sighed.

Prince Marcus, second in line to the throne of Gorebreath, was busy. He was arranging a booby trap for his twin brother, Prince Arioso, but even as he balanced the bucket of soapy water on top of the door, he knew it would be a disappointment. His twin — older by exactly ten minutes and thus first in line to the throne — was so boringly good, he would probably thank Marcus for providing him with a delightful shower. “What a totally charming surprise!” he would say, and then wander away to do extra homework.

Marcus shook his head. It was seriously weird, he thought. They had the same mom. The same dad. They were twins. They looked so alike that only their parents could tell them apart, and even they got it wrong sometimes . . . and yet he and Arioso were so different. Arry did everything he was told and never complained. He studied books and books about royalty and kingdoms without a murmur of protest. He went out with their parents in the royal coach and bowed and waved to the adoring crowds, and said he’d enjoyed every minute. He let whiskery old women kiss him without complaining. He even picked up soggy babies and let them dribble down his neck, and then said, “Goo goo goo — who’s a pretty baby?”

Marcus shuddered. The worst of it was, they could have had such a good time. That was what twins were meant for. Every now and again Marcus would dress up in Arioso’s silks and satins and ride down to the town on his snow-white horse and stir things up a bit, but it wasn’t much fun doing it on your own. In fact, it wasn’t any fun at all. There was always some depressingly wise old woman behind a market stall who’d say, “Aha! You be Prince Marcus, ain’t ee? Us never sees Good Prince Arry snitching apples or letting the piggies out of their pens. Still, boys will be boys. You enjoy yourself, my duckling, and I’ll be a-sending of the bill to the Palace as usual.”

Marcus finished balancing the bucket and wandered away to the palace window. Staring out at the carefully tended gardens and the rows of statues of exceptionally noble knights, he thought for the millionth time that being a prince was about the most boring thing anyone could ever be. Endless receptions, banquets, balls, and garden parties were bad enough, but then there were all the lessons he and Arry were expected to sit through. Marcus sighed. He was meant to be studying
The Rules of Royal Etiquette When Entertaining Persons of Dubious Respectability
,
but Professor Scallio had wandered out of the library and Marcus had made his escape. Arry, no doubt, was still sitting in the middle of a pile of books making copious notes in his homework notebook. It would have been fractionally more interesting, Marcus thought gloomily, if there were even the faintest chance of a Person of Dubious Respectability coming within a thousand miles of the palace . . . but the last recorded visit of any seriousness (a charity collector who had made off with the Royal Treasure Chest and King Frank’s train set) had been years and years ago. As it was, the only people who ever came to the castle were the kings and queens and princes and princesses from Dreghorn or Cockenzie Rood or the other kingdoms scattered across the Northern Plains. Marcus was depressingly certain that there wasn’t a Dubious Person within a thousand miles. Annoying — yes. Bigheaded — yes. Pompous? Marcus groaned. Oh,
yes
! But mostly boring, boring,
boring.
If he were Arry, he’d declare war on all of them just as soon as he reached twenty-one —

Crash!

The bucket fell off the door, and water splashed everywhere in the most satisfactory fashion. Marcus jumped up hopefully and saw a dripping Professor Scallio standing in the doorway.

“Oops,” Marcus said. “Sorry, Professor — that was meant for Arry.”

“Is that so,” the professor said sourly. “Well, Prince Marcus, I have a task meant for
you.
You can write out the famous Gorebreath saying,
‘A wise man balances a bucket where only the thirsty walk,’
five hundred times. I shall expect the lines to be on my desk by six o’clock this evening. If you fail in this task, I shall tell your father, the king, that you are
not
to ride out with your brother tomorrow morning. Ah!” Professor Scallio slapped his forehead. “Speaking of your father reminds me. I came to tell you that you are wanted in the throne room.” And the tutor turned and trudged away.

“Oh,
rats
!” Marcus said loudly, and kicked savagely at the metal bucket to release his feelings. He hated upsetting Professor Scallio. The fat little tutor had a sharp tongue when he was angry, but he was one of the few people who treated Marcus in exactly the same way he treated Arioso. In fact, Marcus had even wondered once or twice if the professor didn’t actually prefer him to Arry. Sometimes, when Arry gave his sweet smile for the tenth time in a morning and said, “I’m sure you must be right, Professor — you know
so
much more than I do,” the tutor would bite his lip and frown. But when Marcus challenged him and argued a point to the death and beyond, Professor Scallio’s eyes would shine and he’d wave his arms so enthusiastically that he seemed to be about to take off. And his punishments were often almost a pleasure. He regularly sent Marcus to spend his free time dusting the least-used section of the library — a dark and gloomy alcove where moths fluttered wildly at the sound of a human step and bats flew from the top shelf with squeaks of protest. Marcus had found several ancient tomes describing dragon fights and battles with werewolves, and a battered collection of recipes for poisoning sea serpents. He’d even found an ancient map of the mountains and forests that lay beyond his father’s kingdom. Geography was not a subject that Arry and Marcus were encouraged to study. The king had forbidden the professor to teach them about anything other than local kingdoms. Arry, of course, accepted this as gracefully as he always did any rule or regulation, but Marcus had fought hard . . . with no success. Professor Scallio refused to answer a single one of his questions about what happened over the borders of Gorebreath. The map was Marcus’s most exciting find and he was happy to have any opportunity to look at it again, so dusting was not something he complained about. Lines, however, were a very real and nasty punishment.

Marcus slammed the parlor door shut behind him and stomped off to see why he was wanted in the throne room. Five hundred lines! He’d
never
get them done by six — not if he was going to do as he had promised and help Ger, the stable boy, groom the horses.

“Oh,
rats
!” he said to himself. “That means no riding tomorrow . . . although I don’t remember Arry saying anything about me coming with him.” He shook his head. “Thought he was going to some la-di-da do in Dreghorn. . . .”

Marcus jumped the last seven steps and thumped his way into the throne room, scowling and angry. He bowed sketchily to his parents and saw Arry standing beside them, smiling his widest smile.

“Aha!” King Frank said cheerfully. “The missing prince! We’ve got some exciting news for you, Marcus old boy!”

“If you say so, Father.” Marcus didn’t even try to sound interested. He knew from much experience that what his father considered exciting was rarely anything other than just plain boring.

“There’s a change of plans for tomorrow. Such fun!” King Frank’s eyes were shining. “You know Arioso was invited to Princess Fedora’s birthday party? Well, we’ve just had a message to say that we’re
all
expected!” He waved a piece of parchment covered in crests and seals under Marcus’s nose. “Young Fedora’s gone and gotten herself engaged to Prince Tertius of Niven’s Knowe, so the party’s turned into a celebration for everybody! Wild rejoicing at noon, ringing of church bells at three, more rejoicing at four, and free beer for the peasants at six o’clock sharp. Messenger says there’ll be dancing till dawn — good stuff, eh?”

“Um.” Marcus was not enthused by the program of celebratory events. “I don’t suppose there’ll be jousting, will there? Or trials of strength?”

“Of course not,” his mother said sharply. “It’s the celebration of an engagement, Marcus. That means love and happiness, not biffing and bopping. There’ll be a wonderful banquet for all royal guests, and speeches, and then the happy couple will lead us through a rose-petal arch and into the palace ballroom.”

“That’s right!” King Frank was still beaming with enthusiasm. “And Tertius has brought the Niven’s Knowe musicians with him, so the music will be wonderful, and of course his sisters will be there, so
that’s
a fine thing too!”

“Ah!” Marcus nodded. That explained why Arry was looking so horribly cheerful. Princess Nina-Rose was exceptionally pretty. She was also, in Marcus’s opinion, exceptionally dull. Almost as dull as Tertius, in fact.
And
Princess Fedora. The whole bunch of them made the muddiest puddle positively sparkle in comparison.

“So make sure you get a good night’s sleep, boys.” King Frank rubbed his hands together and smiled proudly at his sons. “After all, who knows what other royal alliances might be made tomorrow in Dreghorn, eh? Eh?” And he nudged Arry.

“Exactly so, Father,” Arry said, and blushed.

Marcus sighed, but quietly. “I’m
never
going to have a crush on a girl,” he promised himself. “It makes you look like a sick sheep.”

“We go at ten sharp.” King Frank slapped Arry on the back. “Make sure you’re ready! And dressed in your best, of course.” He winked at Marcus, who pretended not to notice. “Nina-Rose has lots of jolly little sisters, so best dress clothes for you, Marcus m’lad.”

“Yes, Father,” Marcus said as politely as he could. “May I go now? I’ve work to do for Professor Scallio.” He bowed once more and scooted out of the throne room to the stable. If he hurried, he’d be in time to help Ger with the riding horses as well as the horses for the state coach, and he fully intended to stay for as long as he was needed. Maybe even longer.

Marcus whistled cheerfully as he swung into the stable yard. He was feeling very differently about those five hundred lines. If Professor Scallio was as good as his word — and he usually was — he might just be able to escape what promised to be the most boring outing ever. . . .