King's Man and Thief (6 page)

The king's head ached with the tension in his back and shoulders, a constant tautness that would not leave him even in sleep. He tried to force himself to relax, but could not. He was not yet comfortable with his adult-sized body and did not know all its subtle secrets. At fifteen, Castyll had grown nearly a foot in the last year alone and had already attained six feet. He would grow more, he knew; Shahil had been a big man, and there was every indication that Castyll would follow in his footsteps. He was thin still, though, thin as a racing dog, and his guards outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Besides, they were armed. Castyll had been taught a healthy respect for weapons and was not about to force a confrontation.

He had come to the culinary herb section of the garden, one of his favorite spots. Seacliff's garden, a modest name for an area that encompassed several dozen acres, was an elaborate creation. It was precise and ordered, with each section clearly defined either by a low stone wall or carefully cut shrubbery. There were several sections—culinary herbs; medicinal and magical herbs; herbs grown solely for their dried fragrances; small flowers; climbing flowers; fruit trees; and flowering trees. Each of Verold's gods had his or her own small statue, and there were gorgeous topiaries, sundials, and stone benches scattered throughout.

Castyll had had herbalism taught to him as part of his magical training —training for a gift that, he was certain, would never come. All the other Mharian kings who possessed the talent had shown it at their Testing, undertaken at age three. Castyll hadn't had the ability then, and had never manifested it since. Still, Shahil was nothing if not optimistic. He had ordered Jemma, current royal herbalist and former Blesser of the goddess Health, to instruct Castyll in the meanings of the herbs harvested at Seacliff.

Now Castyll, bereft of both father and tutor, knelt alone in the garden and reached for a sprig of mint on which to chew. He hadn't seen Jemma since Shahil's death. He hoped the old woman had come to no harm; probably she, like everyone else with whom Castyll was close, had been ordered to keep her distance. Early on, in the chaos that had surrounded Shahil's death, Castyll had been able to send and receive messages from those loyal to him, even to and from Byrn. Now, though, he was surrounded by silence as stony as the walls that encased him.

The cold freshness of the plant burst in his mouth, and a shade of a smile touched the youth's lips. Jemma had urged him to touch, sniff, and taste everything in the culinary herb garden as he listened to "the lore of the plants." Such experimentation had encouraged learning in a child more efficiently than the normal adult response—"don't touch."
Oh, Jemma,
he thought,
if only things were as they had always been, and you were here, telling me that basil means love, and thyme means courage, and
...

He frowned slightly. Someone had been in the garden recently, and had damaged some of the herbs. He was about to raise his voice, call his guards' attention to the vandalism simply for something to do, when understanding broke in him with an almost physical shock.

The herbs that had been broken, their leaves plucked off and piled in small heaps around their roots, had not been selected at random. Castyll knelt, reaching for the small leaves of the thyme, forcing himself to move casually although his heart was thudding frantically.

Thyme —courage.
King's Lady—the "royal" plant.
Rosemary—remembrance.
Sage—salvation.

He read the message in his head:
Have courage, King, you are not forgotten and you will be saved.

A lump welled in his throat. Jemma had not forsaken him! She was no longer in the honored position of Blesser, true, but she was still a wise and well-respected Healer. That she had the ear of many important people, Castyll knew. He blinked back quick tears and cleared the broken, bruised plants away. Turning his head slowly, the king glanced back at the two men. They were bored and talking casually to one another. Castyll puttering with the plants was something they saw every day.

Castyll closed his eyes and said a prayer to the positive aspect of the fickle god/dess, Hope/Despair. He also silently thanked the bountiful goddess Health, under whose dominion all healing plants came. Then, with apparent randomness, he selected herbs to leave his own message. He hoped that Jemma would be able to decipher the complex message.

He rose, brushing his dirtied hands against his fine linen shirt with the carelessness of his youth, and surveyed his handiwork. Obvious to a searcher; meaningless to one who was merely passing by. His task done, he decided to linger no longer and continued his stroll through the garden. But over the next half hour Castyll saw nothing of the beautifully landscaped trees and. shrubberies. His mind's eye was filled with the small, short, wonderful plants of the herb garden.

At last a slight cough from one of the guards alerted him that it was time for the midday repast. Castyll glanced up at the castle and grimaced inwardly, but went with them obediently enough. Seacliff was perched almost precariously at the top of a winding road. It looked as if it might be vulnerable to a siege, but its builders had been wise, creating dozens of tunnels beneath Seacliff that led to secret exits. Most of them had fallen into disuse in these peaceful times. The castle itself was pretty, almost fragile in appearance from the ocean, built of white stone and adorned with many slender towers. It had been Shahil's and Castyll's favorite of the royal dwellings. Now Castyll wondered if he could ever look upon Seacliff without pain.

Bhakir insisted that the king take his meals with him in the formal feast hall. Without colorful decorations and a crowd of revelers, the feast hall seemed to Castyll gloomy and enormous. As he entered, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, dried rushes crunched under his booted feet. Torches burned smokily and the windows were open. Bhakir, still hypocritically clad in the long, flowing robe of sky blue that was worn only by counselors, awaited him at the laden table.

Bhakir did not look like a devious usurper. He looked more like someone's benevolent uncle. He was short and rotund, and his bright brown eyes seemed to always sparkle with laughter. He wore a beard, black and neatly trimmed, as if to compensate for the thinning hairs that barely covered his pate. Like the beautiful carnivorous flowers that were said to bloom in the Elvenlands, Bhakir lured the unwary with that doughy, defenseless exterior and a sweet, seductive laugh that encompassed everyone present. It was only when he had you, thought Castyll with a burst of impotent anger, when you had delicately put your oh-so-fragile insect legs on the shiny surface of the vile creature's mouth, that the teeth would appear. They would crunch down with a suddenness so swift that some were doomed even before they knew the instrument of their betrayal.

Castyll had never been taken in. Neither had his father. Both king and prince had mistrusted the man from the moment he had been elected to the Council, but they were powerless to dismiss him. Had Bhakir been convicted of a crime, he would have been removed from any position of power within the Mharian government. But no breath of scandal touched him. And Castyll knew, with a heaviness that lay on his heart like something tangible, that there were those in Bhakir's inner circle who still held him blameless in the sudden death of the king.

"Ah!" boomed Bhakir, clapping his pudgy hands together in a facsimile of delight. "Good morning to you, Your Majesty. Did you enjoy your walk through the grounds?"

"Yes," replied Castyll curtly. He plopped into a hard, carved wooden chair and glared sullenly at Bhakir. He was the man's prisoner. That did not mean he had to show him courtesy.

Bhakir's dancing eyes narrowed, and for an instant, he bore a closer resemblance to a poisonous reptile than a jolly uncle. The king half expected the fat counselor to open his mouth and display a lolling, forked tongue.

Instead, Bhakir forced a smile. "Then you'll have worked up an appetite." Silk on satin was his voice. Strangers were charmed; Castyll felt a finger of fear prickle along the back of his neck.
For now,
Castyll thought,
he'll take it from me. But not for much longer. How much time do I have left?
he thought with a sudden stab of despair. Breathing suddenly became difficult.
How many weeks, days, hours will it be until I am no longer necessary?

Bhakir gestured and unsmiling servants entered, bearing plates heaped high with food. A cold soup, made with the fresh fruits of the summer, was brought in a gorgeous ceramic bone tureen. The handles were modified lion's heads. Three varieties of bread were served, along with cold and hot roasts and fowl. Castyll watched the parade of food with faint disgust. The midday meal in his father's time had been, often as not, a crude repast of cold meat with a slice of bread wrapped around it, eaten on horseback or while at lessons. The spread before him was far more lavish than the occasion warranted. Bhakir, he knew, would eat twice as much as his king, who was a growing youth. Castyll said nothing, sitting stonily as food that would choke a glutton was piled high in front of him, obscuring the crest of Mhar that was painted on all the plates and serving dishes.

"I know how dining with only me to keep you company bores you, King Castyll," Bhakir said amiably as he spread a thick slice of bread with herb butter. "So I've decided to invite a few guests to join us over the next several weeks."

The constriction around Castyll\s chest that had sprung up without warning a few moments ago eased slightly. A few weeks. He hoped that Bhakir would stick to his timetable.

"I had thought," he ventured, "that we should be going back to Jarmair for my coronation." Bhakir appeared unruffled. "Soon enough, duties shall be laid at your feet, Your Majesty. Enjoy the summer, while you may."

Innocent tone of voice; sinister words. "Who will be joining us, then?" he asked, as he bit into an apple.
A man is known by the company he keeps,
he thought.
Who does Bhakir consider suitable dinner company?

"I thought you might like to meet your new Commander of the Navy, Lord Carroc Zhael," said Bhakir. Butter clung in a greasy glob to his mustache for an instant before the pudgy, beringed hands lifted a linen napkin and delicately patted the offensive matter away. "He is so anxious to meet you."

The new Commander. Castyll had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Lord Zhael, but he knew the name. Shahil had roared it angrily on more than a few nights. Zhael had marched swiftly up the ranks by legal but dishonorable means, stymied in his climbing only by the fact that the upper ranks of the military were staffed by men who were aware of Zhael's true nature. Now, with Shahil's death and the elimination of men who had been loyal to the crown, Zhael's way was clear. Castyll mentally filed the name away for information. How in Verold would he be able to tell Jemma about Zhael, using only herbs to convey the information?

"And Captain Porbrough is also invited." The brown eyes were intense, watching him with the coldness of a cat at a rat's hole. Castyll was instantly alert, though the name meant nothing to him. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the good captain," he hazarded.

A fat red smile appeared in the center of the beard. "You might know him better as Captain Cutter."

Castyll's eyes opened wide, and he was unable to disguise the horror in his voice as he gasped, "The pirate?"

Bhakir shook his head reprovingly. "Captain Porbrough has been the victim of vicious gossip. His deeds, while admittedly illegal, are hardly enough to classify him as a pirate! No, he came to me for clemency, and upon observing he was truly repentant, I granted it. Now he is eager to serve in Your Majesty's navy. I accepted the offer on your behalf." He cut a small, tidy piece of meat with his knife, speared it, and inserted it into his mouth.

So, Captain Porbrough's crimes didn't classify him as a pirate? Castyll knew the man had gotten the name "Captain Cutter" by his penchant for disfiguring anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The prince himself had been present when one of his father's spies, his face a horrible, noseless revulsion, had reported on Captain Cutter's atrocities.

You bastard,
thought Castyll.
You cunning old bastard. If I had my father's magical skills..
. Furiously the king concentrated on an image in his head, a shockingly violent image for a youth usually so calm and controlled. He envisioned Bhakir exploding, his body parts igniting and burning away as they hurtled in various directions. He saw the image in his mind's eye and focused his energy on it.

Nothing. Castyll had no magic. His thoughts fell upon his dreaded enemy with as little effect as the sheepherder's black thoughts upon the wolf raiding his flock.

He licked lips suddenly gone dry and took a sip of the rose-flavored wine. "You're too kind, Bhakir," he said, making his voice sound as sincere as possible. "People will take advantage of you."

For an instant, the counselor seemed to see through Castyll's false flattery. But then, perhaps because Castyll was good at fooling people when he chose, or perhaps a pliant king was something he wanted to see, Bhakir smiled and cut another slice of the meltingly tender venison.

Castyll stared at his plate, certain that if he forced food down it would come right back up. He would be dining with traitors and pirates over the next few weeks. Desperately he hoped that Jemma would read the message—and somehow devise some means for Castyll's escape. He could not stay here. If he stayed, the Derlian line would assuredly end with him, and Mhar would have no one to stand between her and Bhakir's ravishment.

* * * * *

Jemma was permitted to harvest herbs from the garden twice daily —at daybreak and at dusk. As the sun sank slowly in the west, its magnificent departure uncontested by even a single cloud, the old woman hobbled into Sea-cliffs garden.

For three days now, she had positioned the herbs in their peculiar messages, arranging them at dawn. Each dusk had brought disappointment. Castyll had either not noticed them or had not deciphered their subtle code. Now, as she walked, leaning heavily on the oak staff, she saw that the herbs had been disturbed.