Crown of Three (13 page)

“Yes,” he said, adopting a gruff tone that would, he hoped, fool his oldest friend.

“It's just that, well, you were swaying a bit. I thought you were going to faint. I bet it's hot in there.”

“Yes.” It was all Gulph dared to say.

“I suppose they sent you to make up our numbers. I was wondering if . . . Well, we lost someone. He was, um, taken away to somewhere they call the Vault of Heaven. You don't know anything about it, do you?”

“No.”

“It's just . . . I'm worried about him.”

Even through the mask's eye slits, Pip's anguish was plain to see. Gulph wanted to strip off the costume, to explain to her everything that had happened to him, and that it would be all right.

Instead, he told himself that he had no choice but to follow the plan. As soon as King Brutan was brought down and Nynus was on the throne, he and Pip would be reunited. Until then, he just had to be patient.

The pipers stopped playing. Horns sounded a fanfare. Servants scattered to the four corners of the hall, and a hush descended over the throng. Everyone stood.

King Brutan strode in.

He was tall and broad, a big man for a big hall. At his side walked Queen Magritt, dressed all in crimson. Would the king see she was no longer wearing her gloves? Gulph doubted it. Brutan didn't look like the kind of man who noticed such things.

The royal couple walked between the tables to the platform that held two thrones, a table already crammed with food in front of them. Brutan helped Magritt into the smaller one, then took the Toronian throne, sculpted with eagles and lions, for himself. As he sank down onto the blood-colored cushions, another fanfare echoed through the hall, and the rest of the diners seated themselves again.

King Brutan ripped the leg from a roasted pheasant and raised it over his head.

“Let us eat!” he roared, cramming the meat into his mouth.

“We're on,” said Pip. “Follow me. And try to keep up!”

As they trotted to their places before the king's table, a small band of minstrels appeared in a gallery overlooking the hall. A drumbeat began; a fiddle player took up the rhythm and suddenly the entire hall was filled with raucous music. Grinning through a mouthful of half-chewed meat, Brutan started thumping the table.

Pip began to dance, the bells on her outfit ringing merrily. Around her, the other members of the Tangletree Players launched into their routines of juggling and mime. Gulph watched dumbly for a moment, temporarily lost.

“Do something!” hissed Pip as she cavorted past.

Snapping out of his reverie, Gulph spread his arms and skipped down the hall. The diners roared, apparently pleased to see this creature of legend come to life. When he reached the royal table, he clicked his shoulders out of their sockets, preparing to perform one of the impossible contortions that always went down so well.

He stopped. Nothing would give him away more quickly than one of his usual moves. Spinning wildly, he restored his bones to their proper places and started doing backflips instead. The weight of the costume made it difficult, but his wiry body was strong.

“Faster! Faster!” roared the king, banging the table again.

Gulph complied, forcing extra speed from his sweating limbs. Each time he returned to an upright position, it seemed the king's mouth was stuffed with more food, his cloak was more stained with wine, and the servants scurrying around him were more bent and afraid.

I bet no one will miss him
, thought Gulph.
Toronia can't be any worse off with Nynus on that throne instead.

As Gulph continued with his antics, he spotted a tall figure taking up station beside the throne platform. It was Captain Ossilius, scanning the room with keen eyes. Behind him, a whole troop of legionnaires stood at attention in their shining bronze armor. More soldiers had appeared down the length of the banqueting hall.

One of the legionnaires in Ossilius's troop was shorter than the others. His helmet covered most of his face, leaving exposed only a pale, beardless jaw.

Nynus
.

The time to act was nearly here.

The music reached a crescendo. Gulph accelerated his pace, turning the backflips into stationary cartwheels. The red furs flapped against his legs; the copper claws clashed like swords. The crowd cheered.

With a final rattle of drums, the music crashed to a halt. With a rousing cheer, the Tangletree Players formed themselves into a line and bowed before the king. Gulph was only dimly aware of them concluding their act. He'd been performing in a world of his own.

Silence descended on the banqueting hall. Through the mask, Gulph saw that Captain Ossilius was staring straight at him. Slowly, the captain nodded his head, the tiniest movement.

After his acrobatics, Gulph's heart was racing. Now it started to hammer. Sweat poured down his face, dripping into his eyes. In a fog, he stepped up onto the platform. Brutan's laughter was loud, and his breath was terrible. The king's face was a red blur.

Reaching inside his costume, Gulph pulled out the copper crown. He raised his gloved hands above his head and turned a slow circle. The diners cheered. The king guffawed.

“King Brutan!” Gulph cried, no longer caring who recognized his voice. “It is not enough to be king of Toronia!”

Through the film of sweat, Gulph saw Brutan lower his brow into a deadly frown.

“What did you say?” he rumbled ominously.

“I say that you are also the king of merriment!” cried Gulph, dancing round the table to the throne. Now the crown was poised directly above the king's head.

Brutan looked up at the crown. Gulph's vision cleared at last, and their eyes locked.

“And I say so too!” shouted Brutan, squirming on the throne like a little boy about to receive a treat.

Hands shaking, Gulph placed the crown on his head.

The crowd erupted. Gulph stepped back. The uproar continued, but nobody moved.

Gulph looked at Captain Ossilius. What was going on? With the signal given, surely the legionnaires should draw their weapons and lead the king away. Wasn't that how it was supposed to work? Why wasn't anything happening?

What had he done wrong?

A choking sound came from the throne. Brutan clutched at the sides of his head. Then his hands dropped to his throat. His eyes bulged. His red face turned purple, thick veins throbbing at his temples. His tongue lolled from his mouth, swelling visibly, like a balloon.

The cheering subsided. People started to scream. Servants and courtiers rushed to the throne, some of them clambering over the table in an effort to reach the king quickly.

Horrified, Gulph took a faltering step backward. The costume seemed suddenly twice as heavy, the sweat on his body twice as slick. Something was terribly wrong.

Captain Ossilius barked a command and the legionnaires moved, spreading out across the floor with fast efficiency, holding back the throng and blocking the exits.

Foam bubbled from Brutan's mouth. His arms thrashed, throwing off the servants who were trying to hold him down.

Where the crown touched his head was a ring of bubbling flesh, as if the copper had been dipped in fire just before Gulph had set it in place.

In fire or . . . in poison.

Gulph tore off the gloves and threw them down; they lay coiled on the wine-soaked floor like dead snakes. Suddenly he understood why Nynus had insisted he wear them. As the realization came, Brutan reared up from the throne, his swollen mouth gaping in a silent scream. The servants fell away, their expressions confused and distraught.

Queen Magritt stood slowly and took her husband's twitching arm.

“Yes, my dear,” she said with soft menace. “The time has come for you to leave the throne for good. But do not worry. There is someone here ready to take your place.”

Nynus appeared at her side. He'd removed his helmet. His pale face was contorted into what Gulph supposed was a smile. It looked more like the cold and haunted grin of a skeleton.

Gulph looked again at the gloves strewn on the floor. This was what the queen had planned all along. And Nynus, his friend, had known too. Everything he'd said about wanting to spare his father, giving him his own castle in which to live out the rest of his life. . . .

All lies.

Limmoni had been right.

With a final, agonized gasp, King Brutan fell dead across the table. The poisoned crown rolled from his head and toppled to the floor, where it spun and spun, ringing like a metal coin for what seemed like hours, until it finally settled to a stop. Silence fell again, and all was still.

One thought thundered inside Gulph's head.
I have killed the king.

G
ulph's mouth was dry. His heart juddered as if it were pumping hot sand around his veins. Wind howled in his head like a wolf. He'd felt fear before, but never anything like this. It was as if his entire body—no, his entire
being
—was shriveling to nothing.

They will kill me
, he thought.

Stricken with panic, he staggered backward through the crowds of confused and frightened people. Nobody paid him any heed; some even seemed to stare right through him. How could they be so blind to someone in such an absurd costume?

His stumbling feet tripped on a pile of fallen dinner plates, and he fell. A split opened in the furs he was wearing, and his beaked and scaly mask slipped. He threw it aside, starting to tear off the whole hideous costume. Had dressing him as a king-killing monster been Magritt and Nynus's idea of a joke?

“What's happening?” The voice was Pip's. She was right beside him, fallen too, and gazing up at the confused activity around the throne. She blinked, and seemed to see Gulph for the first time.

“You!” she cried. “Gulph! It's you!” Her eyes were wide with surprise.

“Pip! I've so much to . . .” Gulph broke off. The expression on Pip's face wasn't surprise after all. It was horror.

She was staring at the remains of his costume. “What have you done?”

“Wait, Pip. Let me explain.”

But she was hurrying away. He set off after her until her way was blocked by a fallen table. She backed against it, shaking her head.

“Don't come any nearer.”

Gulph stopped and held out his hands.
The hands of a killer
. “Pip, please, just let me—”

She was shaking. “I thought you were my friend! How could you? You . . . you're a murderer!”

“I didn't . . . Pip, I'm still me. I'm still Gulph.”

“No, you're not. Get away from me!”

Cries rose from the end of the hall. A gap opened in the crowd of servants and courtiers, creating a clear line of sight to the platform. The table had been pushed aside to reveal the throne. Nynus was sitting on it, his white face bright and alert. Beside him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, stood his mother.

“The king is dead!” cried Queen Magritt. “May the new king live long! Kneel now before him! Kneel before Nynus, king of Toronia!”

Something like a wave passed down the length of the hall as, one after the other, everyone present dropped to one knee. The servants surrounding the throne did so with fearful expressions on their faces; many of the courtiers too looked afraid, although some looked pleased; the majority of the diners simply looked stunned.

The wave reached the spot where Gulph and Pip were crouched. Gulph shuffled himself into a kneeling position, and was relieved to see Pip do the same. What else could they do?

At Magritt's command, several of Captain Ossilius's legionnaires dragged Brutan's body from the table and spirited it away out of sight, treating it with no more care than one of the sides of beef in the butcher's store. Waving her arms, the queen cleared the last lingering servants from the platform, leaving herself and her son alone in their place of honor.

“Toronia is broken,” she said, her voice echoing around the enormous hall. “King Nynus will rebuild it. He will crush the rebel forces with his strength. With his wisdom, he will make new laws to ensure that Toronia will never again be divided. Heed his first command as your sovereign.”

The watching assembly listened in silence. Some shifted awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable on their knees. But their king hadn't yet given them permission to stand.

“The king's command concerns a witch called Kalia,” Magritt continued. “Kalia seduced King Brutan, and corrupted him. Thirteen years ago she bore him three children—triplets indeed.”

Gasps rose up. Some of those watching turned to each other and started whispering. Gulph heard several mutter the word “prophecy.” It made him think of the Prophecy Song, an old tune he'd heard in the taverns of Isur, bawled by drunks at the end of a night. How was that connected with what he'd been forced to do to King Brutan?

Nynus raised one hand. Silence fell.

“Be quiet!” he called, his voice thin and clear. “Listen to what my mother has to say.”