A World Without Heroes (34 page)

They walked across the dining room and down a wood-paneled hallway, then mounted carpeted stairs to a room with a small bar in the corner and a fire blazing inside a green marble fireplace. Several men stood around a long felt table casting dice. A big man whose wavy red hair fell to his shoulders slapped his thigh and let out a booming laugh. A few of the other men groaned.

“Viscount Wershon,” Tedril said.

The red-haired man turned, smiling.

“You remember Lord Jason of Caberton.”

“Caberton, you say?” Bartley repeated boisterously, staring blankly at Jason.

Jason felt like a fool. So far only Bartley was facing him—the other men remained occupied with the gaming table. His little gamble to establish credibility was about to destroy it. Holding Bartley’s gaze, Jason winked.

“Yes, Jason, my friend, how have you been?”

Jason could breathe again. “Quite well.”

Bartley strode over and put an arm around his shoulders. “Walk with me, my friend, so we can reminisce. Excuse us.”

Jason did not look back at Tedril.

Bartley guided Jason to a neighboring room.

“So who in the blazes are you?” Bartley asked in a husky whisper. His breath reeked of spicy sausages.

“My family was exiled years ago. I’m here to help us regain some respect. I really am Lord of Caberton.” Jason held up the ring.

Bartley squinted. “So it would seem.”

“I’m hoping the regent will confirm me Lord of Rubble.”

Bartley laughed explosively and slapped Jason on the back hard enough to knock him off balance. “Caberton is a start. You’re dressed well. Your family had reserves?”

“I have money.”

“You enjoy gaming?”

“I’ve never been a careful person.”

“You play Bones?”

“I don’t know the game.”

Bartley paused. “But you have money?”

“Yes.”

Bartley threw an arm around him. “This is a dream! A young, well-funded novice! I wish we were playing Knuckles! Tomorrow, perhaps. Come, join us.” Bartley released the embrace but gripped Jason’s elbow, pausing, his eyes suddenly sober. “But first you must tell me how you acquired the ring. It’s authentic.”

“My father spent time in prison with Galloran.”

“No, really, the truth.”

“My father bought it,” Jason confided quietly.

“Bought it?” Bartley asked, his grip tightening.

“Right. I don’t know all of the details. The merchant claimed it truly came from a prisoner who spent time with Galloran.”

Bartley released his elbow. “Galloran,” he whispered, looking haunted. “Did any knowledge come with the ring?”

“I have no reason to think Galloran survived,” Jason said, since it seemed to be what Bartley needed to hear. “I plan to say my father was the prisoner who received the title and the ring. The real story could weaken my claim.”

“You’re too free with your information,” Bartley said, recovering.

“My parents thought I could count on you,” Jason said. “I decided to roll the dice.”

Bartley harrumphed. “Right, the dice. Off we go.” Bartley began walking, motioning for Jason to follow. “Bones can feel complicated at first. Two shooters. One shoots for the house, one for himself. Players can bet in several ways. Stay close to me; you’ll catch on. You have bronze?”

“Gold and silver, mostly.”

Bartley grinned. “I can make change for you.”

Jason joined the men around the table. Bartley introduced him as Lord of Caberton. The house shooter wore a black vest with gold embroidery. He rolled a pair of ten-sided dice, one black and one white. The other man, a simpering gentleman wearing white gloves, threw a similar pair of dice, except one was blue and the other yellow.

Jason stuck to bets with decent odds. He won a bit, started betting more boldly, then lost a lot, falling more than a hundred drooma below even. After a risky bet paid off amid laughter and applause, he was back up two hundred and fifty.

The men laughed and shouted as money was won and lost. Sometime late in the evening Tedril reappeared. He seemed utterly won over. He gave Jason a key and told him a servant would see him to his room once he was ready. Jason could hardly hear the innkeeper over the commotion. Tedril promised to help acquaint him with the city and schedule an audience with the
regent. A man in a fancy coat waved Tedril away, draping an arm about Jason’s shoulders in mindless camaraderie.

Jason’s winnings climbed to nearly three hundred before plummeting. He quit when he was fifty drooma above even, and left with Bartley.

“You fared well tonight,” Bartley blustered. His face was flushed, almost matching his hair. “You won and lost more than some men ever see. As did I. But we both came out ahead of the house, and that is cause for celebration.”

“Thanks for introducing me to the others.”

“I’ll vouch for you at court as well. The last twenty years have been hard on many families. Everyone deserves a second chance. Tell me, who are your parents?”

“They instructed me to confirm nothing to anyone, even you.”

Bartley grunted. “Probably wise. You ever play Knuckles?”

“No.”

Bartley grinned. “The finest card game ever devised! We’ll see whether you can still afford my friendship after tomorrow. Ha! I’m jesting. We’ll set reasonable limits. Good night, Lord Jason.” He shambled off down a hall.

Jason pulled out his key and stopped a servant. “Could you show me to my room?”

“By all means, Lord Caberton.”

At his door Jason tipped the man five drooma, and the servant regarded him in grateful awe. Once again Jason surmised that people in Lyrian must not tip very well.

The spacious room was nicely furnished. A set of doors opened onto a veranda with a wicker table and chairs. Jason crossed to a full-length mirror and examined himself. Days of travel had melted some fat from his frame, leaving his face leaner and more sharply defined. His new attire did look princely, although he
imagined his friends from the baseball team would beat him up if they ever saw him dressed this way.

Sitting at his desk, Jason examined the contents of his knapsack. His money bag contained nine gold drooma and twelve silver, along with many new bronze pellets after gambling. More important than money, he had won acceptance at the Upturned Goblet. But how would he find a question to defeat a man such as Copernum?

Closing his eyes, Jason tried to imagine what might baffle the chancellor. Judging from the description Nicholas had given, it would be nearly impossible. Rachel knew lots of riddles, but Jason doubted that would be the best road. He needed trivial details, things a smart man might still miss. But what?

He knew some good trivia from biology class. He knew that the tip of the sternum was called the xiphoid process. He knew that flexing the foot upward was dorsiflexion, and downward was plantar flexion. He knew the cheekbone was called the zygomatic arch.

But who knew if anatomy had been classified the same way here in Lyrian? Who knew if anatomical details had been classified at all? And if they had, a learned man like Chancellor Copernum would probably know them.

He could think of some tough questions. Does a tree make a sound when it falls if nobody is around? How can you prove you exist? What is the meaning of life? The problem was, he not only had to stump Copernum—he had to provide a better answer.

Unsure how to force inspiration, Jason brooded miserably. Despite the late hour his frenzied mind did not feel sleepy.

Four days later Jason sat anxiously in the posh compartment of a sleek black carriage alongside the Viscount Bartley of Wershon, on
his way to an audience with the regent. Velvet curtains screened the city from view. He wore an embroidered doublet, breeches that ballooned around his thighs, crimson stockings, and simple black shoes as soft as slippers. In his lap rested an overgrown beret with a crimson plume. He might have suspected the outfit was a joke had Bartley not worn similar attire.

A tailor had come to his room two days ago to measure him for the costume, then delivered the outfit the following morning. Despite the gaudy appearance, his clothes felt surprisingly comfortable.

Over the past few days Jason had lost nearly four hundred drooma gambling, most of it playing Knuckles, much of it to Bartley. He had spent another couple hundred on food and additional clothing.

Jason had used all of his free time to consider riddles and questions. Some of the riddles Jason remembered were silly jokes from his childhood. What’s easy to catch but hard to throw? A cold. Why did the baby cross the road? It was stapled to the chicken. What do you get when you cross a cactus and a porcupine? Sore hands.

He felt most hopeful about some odd bits of trivia he had recalled, but still none of his ideas seemed like a reliable bet. He wished he had an Internet connection to his world!

The ride from the Upturned Goblet to the castle was brief. Before long the carriage clattered through the gates, and a footman helped them down.

“You will enter through the audience gate,” Bartley said. “I will await you inside. See you soon.”

Jason followed a liveried servant into the castle. They passed down a vaulted hallway. Ornate pilasters adorned the walls at regular intervals. Gold scrollwork embellished the ceiling. Enormous
urns, intricately painted, dwarfed the rigid guards positioned along the immense corridor.

Jason and his liveried escort came to a heavy pair of bronze doors flanked by guards in ostentatious uniforms, complete with bandoleers, medals, epaulets, and ridiculously tall hats. The guards kept their gazes fixed down the hall, blinking infrequently, and never looked at Jason.

Another man waited outside the door. He wore a pointed hat and a long silk cape. A voice from behind the doors cried out, “Yosef, son of Pontiv.” The doors swung outward. The pointy-hat guy entered, and the doors closed.

The servant stood silently beside Jason. The guards stared solemnly at the empty hall. Jason tried to calm himself. Obviously, the grandeur of the hall was meant to intimidate visitors. He tried not to stress. The best thing he could do if he wanted his claim recognized was to stay calm and look like he belonged.

“The purported Lord Jason of Caberton,” echoed a voice from inside the chamber. The bronze doors swung outward. A long blue carpet edged in silver led across the polished stone floor toward the dais, where the regent sat upon a great ivory chair. Crowds of elegantly arrayed courtiers clustered in groups off to either side. A portly old fellow with plump, healthy features, the regent looked much more like a real king than Galloran. A bejeweled circlet rested on his head. Rings glittered on his fingers. His fine raiment was a rich purple trimmed in gold.

Jason advanced along the carpet to where it stopped at a raised, circular piece of marble directly before the throne. Jason stood upon the pedestal. Bartley had informed him it was called the Petitioner’s Wheel. It gave an individual on the floor of the throne room the right to address the regent. Only those upon the dais shared the right to address Dolan directly. Currently two men
stood upon the dais beside the regent, one dressed as a soldier, the other wearing long blue robes and an oversized tricornered hat, with a silver mantle wrapped about his narrow shoulders.

Standing upon the Petitioner’s Wheel, Jason looked up silently at the regent. Bartley had cautioned him to wait for Dolan to speak first.

“Greetings, young man,” Dolan said. “You claim the title of Caberton?”

“I do, sire.” According to Bartley, “sire” and “Your Highness” were the forms of address etiquette demanded for the occasion. “Your Majesty”
was reserved for the king.

“Hold forth your right hand.”

Jason complied.

“Sound the tone.”

A hollow metal tube, like a giant chime, hung from a chain off to one side of the throne. The man dressed like a soldier struck the long tube with a hammer, producing a deep, penetrating tone. Jason could feel his teeth vibrating. The ring on his finger began to glow, as did one of the regent’s rings. Glancing around the room, Jason observed many other rings glowing, including a ring upon Bartley’s hand.