Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold! (18 page)

The stooped figure shifted from one foot to the other. “Perhaps. But it might be different with you. None of the others had help. Yet twice now after twenty years of absence, the Paladin has come to you.”

Ben wheeled at once on Aberaathy. “Is he telling me the truth—the Paladin has never come to anyone before?”

Aberaathy shook his head solemnly. “Never, High Lord.” He cleared his throat. “It grieves me to admit it, but the wizard may have a point. It might indeed be different with you.”

“But I had nothing to do with the Paladin’s appearance,” Ben insisted. “And I don’t know that he came to me necessarily. He was simply there. Besides, you said yourself it was a ghost we were seeing. And even if he wasn’t a ghost, he looked wrecked to me. The Mark looked the stronger of the two and not in the least intimidated by this so-called champion that the King is supposed to rely upon to protect him. Frankly, I can’t believe any of this. And I don’t know that I understand it yet. Let’s back up a minute. Questor, your half-brother Meeks sells the throne to an outsider like me for a big price, choosing someone who won’t last. Even if he mistakenly chooses someone who might tough it out, the Mark is on hand to make sure he doesn’t. But the Mark can’t be King while someone else holds the medallion—am I right? So what does the Mark get out of all this? Doesn’t Meeks keep bringing other candidates in month after month, year after year?”

Questor nodded. “But the Mark is a demon, and the demons live long lives, High Lord. Time is less meaningful when you can afford to wait, and the Mark can afford to wait a long, long time. Eventually, my half-brother and the old King’s son will tire of the game and will have accumulated enough riches and power to divert their interest from Landover’s throne. When that happens, they will cease bothering with the matter and abandon Landover to her fate.”

“Oh.” Ben understood now. “And when that happens, the Mark will gain Landover by default.”

“That is one possibility. Another is that the demon will find a way in the interim to gain control of the medallion. He cannot seize it by force from the wearer; but sooner or later, one of Landover’s succession of Kings will grow careless
and lose it—or one will accept the Mark’s challenge and be …”

Ben held up his hands quickly. “Don’t say it.” He hesitated. “What about the other predators—the ones whose worlds border on Landover? What are they doing while all this is going on?”

The wizard shrugged. “They are not strong enough as yet to stand against the Mark and the demons of Abaddon. One day, perhaps they will be. Only the Paladin had ever possessed such strength.”

Ben frowned. “What I don’t understand is why this Paladin simply disappeared after the death of the old King. If he were truly protector of the land and the throne, why would he disappear just because there was a change of Kings? And what’s become of the fairies? Didn’t you say that they created Landover as a gateway to their world? Why don’t they protect it, then?”

Questor shook his head and said nothing. Abernathy was quiet as well. Ben studied them wordlessly a moment, then turned back again to the suit of armor on the dais. It was tarnished and rusted, battered and worn, a shell that resembled nothing so much as the discarded body of a junk car shipped to the salvage yard for scrap. This was all that remained of Landover’s protector—of the King’s protector. He walked to the kneeling pad and stared up at the metal shell wordlessly. This was what he had seen in the mists of the time passage and again in the mists of the forest that ringed the Heart. Had it been but a part of those mists? He had not thought so, but he was less certain now. This was a land of magic, not exact science. Dreams and visions might seem more real here.

“Questor, you called the Paladin a ghost,” he said finally, not turning to look at the other. “How can a ghost be of any help to me?”

There was a long pause. “He was not always a ghost. Perhaps he need not remain one.”

“Life after death, is that it?”

“He was a thing created of the magic,” Questor answered quietly. “Perhaps life and death have no meaning for him.”

“Do you have any idea at all how we can go about finding that out?”

“No.”

“Do you have any suggestions for finding a way to get him back again?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. All we can do is hope he shows up before the Mark issues his next challenge and turns me into the latest of a long line of kingly failures!”

“You have another choice. You can use the medallion. The medallion can take you back to your own world whenever you choose to go. The Mark cannot stop you. You need only wish for it, and you will be gone.”

Ben grimaced. Wonderful. Just tap the red shoes together three times and repeat, “There’s no place like home.” Off he would go, back to Kansas. Just wonderful. He had to do it within the next twenty-four hours, of course, if he didn’t want to return a million dollars lighter. And whether he chose to do it within the next twenty-four hours or whether he waited until the Mark came riding for him out of the black pit, he would be running in either case, leaving Landover exactly as he had described himself—the latest in a long line of Kingly failures.

His jaw set. He didn’t like losing. He didn’t like giving up.

On the other hand, he wasn’t paticularly keen on dying.

“How did I ever get myself into this?” he muttered under his breath.

“Did you say something?” Questor asked.

He turned away from the dais and the shell of armor, his eyes searching out the stooped figures of the wizard and the scribe through the lengthening shadows of twilight. “No,” he sighed. “I was just mumbling.”

They nodded and said nothing.

“I was just thinking to myself.”

They nodded again. “I was just…”

He trailed off hopelessly. The three of them stared at one another in silence and no one said anything more.

It was almost completely dark out when they left the chapel to retrace their steps through the corridors and halls of the castle. The smokeless lamps spread their glow through the shadows. The flooring and walls were vibrant with warmth.

“What do you gain from all of this?” Ben asked Questor at one point.

“Hmmmmm?” The stopped figure turned.

“Do you get a share of the profits on all these sales of the throne?”

“High Lord!”

“Well, you did say you helped write the sales pitch, didn’t you?”

The other was flushed and agitated. “I receive no part of any monies spent to acquire Landover!” he snapped.

Ben shrugged and glanced over at Abernathy. But for once the scribe made no comment. “Sorry,” Ben apologized. “I just wondered why you were involved in all of this.”

The other man said nothing, and Ben let the subject drop. He thought about it as they walked, though, and decided finally that what Questor gained from these sales was what he had probably wanted all along—the position and title of court wizard. His half-brother had held both before him, and Questor Thews had been a man without any real direction in his life. Now he had found that direction, and it probably made him happy enough just to be able to point to that.

And shouldn’t it be like that for me as well, he wondered suddenly?

He was struck by the thought. Why was it that he had purchased the throne of Landover in the first place? He hadn’t purchased it with the thought that it would become some other-world version of Sun City where he might retire, play golf and meditate on the purpose of man’s existence,
had he? He had purchased the throne to escape a world and a life he no longer found challenging. He was the wanderer that Questor Thews had once been. Landover’s Kingship offered him direction. It offered him the challenge he had sought.

So what was he griping about?

Easy, he answered himself. He was griping because this kind of challenge could kill him—literally. This wasn’t a court of law with a judge and jury and rules that he was talking about here. This was a battlefield with armor and weapons and only one rule—survival of the fittest. He was a King without a court, without an army, without a treasury, and without subjects interested in obeying a sovereign they refused to recognize. He was a King with a castle that was slowly passing into dust, four retainers straight out of the brothers Grimm and a protector that was nine-tenths ghost. He might not have been looking for Sun City, but he sure as hell hadn’t bargained for this, either!

Had he?

He carried the debate with him to dinner.

He ate again in the great hall. Questor, Abernathy and the two kobolds kept him company. He would have eaten alone if he had not insisted that the others join him. They were retainers to the King of Landover now, Questor pointed out, and retainers did not eat with the High Lord unless they were invited to do so. Ben announced that until further notice they all had a standing invitation.

Dinner was less eventful than the previous night. There were candles and good china place settings. The food was excellent, and no one felt compelled to improve on its service. Conversation was kept to a minimum; Bunion and Parsnip ate in silence, and Questor and Abernathy exchanged only mild barbs on the eating habits of men and dogs. Ben sampled everything on the table, more hungry than he had a right to be, stayed clear of the wine, and kept his thoughts to himself. No one said anything about the coronation. No one said anything about the Mark or the Paladin.

It was all very civilized. It was also endless.

Ben finally sent everyone from the table and sat there alone in the candlelight. His thoughts remained fixed on Landover. Should he stay or should he go? How sturdy was this wall of seemingly unsolvable problems that he was butting his head against? How much sense did it make for him to keep trying.

How many angels could pass through the eye of a needle?

The answers to all of these questions eluded him entirely. He went to bed still seeking them out.

He woke the next morning shortly after sunrise, washed in the basin placed next to his bed, dressed in his running sweats and Nikes, and slipped quietly through the halls of Sterling Silver for the front entry. He was soundless in his movements, but Abernathy had good ears and was waiting for him at the portcullis.

“Breakfast, High Lord?” he asked, his glasses inching down over his furry nose as he looked Ben over.

Ben shook his head. “Not yet. I want to run first.”

“Run?”

“That’s right—run. I did it all the time before I came to Landover and I miss it. I miss the workouts at the Northside Health Club. I miss the sparring and the speed work and the heavy bag. Boxing, we call it. I guess that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“It is true that dogs do not box,” Abernathy replied. “Dogs do run, however. Where is it that you plan to run this morning, High Lord?”

Ben hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Probably at the valley’s rim where there’s some sun.

Abernathy nodded. “I’ll send someone to accompany you.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t need anyone, thanks.”

The other turned away. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you,” he said and disappeared down the hallway.

Ben stared after him momentarily, then wheeled without
waiting and strode through the portcullis and gates to the lake skimmer. He boarded and his thoughts sent the skiff leaping recklessly ahead through the gray waters. He did not need someone with him everywhere he went, he thought stubbornly. He was not some helpless child.

He grounded the lake skimmer on the far shore, turned, and jogged ahead through the gloom. He worked his way slowly to the valley slope, then started up. When he reached the rim, he turned right and began to follow the forest’s edge. Below him, the valley lay wrapped in shadows. Above, the pale golden light of the sun washed the new day in trailers of mist.

He ran easily, his thoughts drifting with the soft padding of his running shoes on the damp earth. His head felt clear and alert, and his muscles felt strong. He hadn’t felt like that since he had arrived in Landover, and the feeling was a good one. Trees slipped rapidly away beside him, and the ground passed smoothly beneath. He breathed the air and let the stiffness in his body slowly work itself out.

Last night’s questions were still with him, and the search for their answers went on. This was the final day of the ten days allotted him for rescission under the terms of his contract with Meeks. If he didn’t rescind now, he would lose the million dollars paid for the purchase of Landover’s Kingship. He might also lose his life—although Questor Thews had assured him that the medallion would take him back again at any time with but a moment’s thought. In any case, the choices were clear. He could stay and attempt to straighten out the morass of problems he would face as King of Landover, risk a confrontation with the Mark and give up the million dollars, or he could leave, admit that the purchase was the dog that Miles had warned, return to his old life and world, and get back most of the million dollars he had spent. Neither choice held much appeal. Neither choice held much hope.

He was breathing more quickly now, feeling the strain of running begin to wear pleasingly on his muscles. He pushed
himself, picking up the pace slightly, working to pass through the wall of his resistance. A flash of something dark caught his eye—something moving through the forest. He glanced over sharply, searching. There was nothing now—only the trees. He kept moving. He must have imagined it.

He thought again about the Paladin, knight-errant of the realm. He sensed somehow that the Paladin was the key to everything that was wrong with Landover’s throne. It was too large a coincidence that, with the old King’s death, the Paladin had disappeared as well and everything had started to go wrong with the Kingship. There was a link between them that he needed to understand. It might be possible for him to do so, he reasoned, if it were true as Questor had thought that the Paladin had indeed appeared twice now because of him. Perhaps he could find a way to bring the Paladin back yet a third time—and this time discover if he were indeed but a ghost.

The sun rose higher as he ran on, and it was approaching midmorning when he started back down the valley slope for the lake skimmer. Twice more he thought he caught sight of something moving in the trees, but each time he looked there was nothing there. He recalled Abernathy’s veiled warning, but dismissed it summarily. They were always telling you to stay off the streets of Chicago, too, but you didn’t live life shut away in a box.