Once In a Blue Moon (45 page)

At the sudden sound of raised voices outside the closed doors of the Court, they both looked round sharply. They recognised the Prime Minister’s voice, demanding to be allowed entry. The King smiled slightly.

“Why not?”

He sent the Steward to the doors, to pass along his order to the guards, and the King watched coldly as the Prime Minister burst through the opened doors and strode down the empty Court towards him. The King smiled sardonically as the Prime Minister bowed to him as briefly as protocol would allow.

“You’ve been listening in again, haven’t you, Prime Minister? Spying on me, through that sorcerous brother of yours. If he wasn’t so useful, I’d have his head taken off right here in front of me, and then stuck on a spike over my gates as a warning to others. And then we’d see whether he’s got enough magic in him to put his head back on again . . . Be warned, Prime Minister. There is a thin line between arrogance and treason.”

“Is it treason to care about the safety of the realm?” Gregory Pool demanded furiously. “You cannot seriously be considering bringing Prince Cameron back, Sire! You must know there are still factions present in this Court who would place him on the throne as their figurehead!”

“And you must know I would never suffer such a thing to happen,” said the King. “The Broken Man can never be King. But he can lead our armies to victory. If necessary. We do not want to go to war, Prime Minister. It is unthinkable. But unthinkable things have happened before. And so we must be prepared for all eventualities. Because that is the duty of a King. To do what is necessary.”

SEVEN

THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE AND HATE

R
ound the back of Forest Castle, where hardly anybody goes because it’s just scrubby woodland and really poor hunting, there is another large and carefully maintained artificial clearing. Nowhere near as large, or as old, as the clearing made to contain Forest Castle, but still pretty important in its own right. It was hacked out of the woods by the Brotherhood of Steel, some sixty years previously, specifically so they could have somewhere to hold their annual Grand Tourney. The Brotherhood didn’t do it themselves, of course, manual labour being beneath their dignity. Instead they rounded up a whole bunch of local peasants, who didn’t seem to be doing anything important, paid them a pittance, and put them to work. Along with whoever happened to be on punishment detail in the Brotherhood’s Sorting Houses. These people came back so determined never to be put on punishment detail again, that even after the clearing had been established the Brotherhood continued to send whatever people they had on punishment detail to keep the clearing open and stop the woodland from creeping back.

For generations afterwards, the local peasants passed down stories of the great clearing they helped make. With an added moral to the tale: if you see the Brotherhood of Steel coming, run.

Permission to open up such a large clearing so close to Forest Castle had been provided by Parliament, on the grounds that it was better to have the Brotherhood’s greatest warriors fighting it out in one place rather than in the streets and bars of the towns and the cities. (Parliament and the Brotherhood agreed to split all the costs, and the merchandising revenue, between them, and that also helped to move things along.) No one even thought to inform King Rufus about any of this, until the deal was safely signed and settled. By which time it was far too late for anyone at Court to make any useful objections. This was perhaps one of the first real signs that no one outside the Court gave a damn what the King thought anymore.

And now the seasons had passed, and the time had come round again for the annual Grand Tourney to take place. People had been working out in the clearing from the moment the rising sun had provided enough light for the workmen to see what they were doing. There was a great deal to do, and not a lot of time to do it in. Tents and marquees had to be set up, and all kinds of stalls; fighting circles had to be marked out, and the single jousting lane. Several sets of raked seating had to be carefully assembled. And somebody really low down in the pecking order had to dig a whole bunch of latrines. The people in charge of all this were of course professionals, and very well paid for their services. The people who did the actual hard labour were also pretty well paid, because by this time they’d organised themselves into unions and guilds. And there were any number of unpaid volunteers, happy to labour for hours, in return for free passes and guaranteed good positions in the raked seating, with really good views of all the major events.

The Grand Tourney, so called to distinguish it from the four lesser seasonal tourneys, took place once a year, and allowed the very best fighters and warriors and magicians to show off in public. A marvellous setting, where the best of the best were allowed and even encouraged to beat the crap out of one another in front of baying crowds, and prove once and for all that they really were the greatest in their own personal field. Theoretically, the Grand Tourney was open to everyone. But it was a long way to come, to turn up, fight and lose, and walk all the way home again . . . so most people preferred to prove themselves in the seasonal tourneys first. Still, it was a point of pride, and long tradition, that nobody who turned up ready to compete would ever be turned away. Although a lot of the people in charge, most definitely including those august personages who ran the Brotherhood’s Sorting House, would have very much liked to ban anyone who’d ever attended the Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy. Partly because they didn’t have the proper attitude or show the proper respect, but mostly because when they did turn up they always won everything.

And they weren’t even gracious about it.

There were golden and silver cups to be won, and extravagantly worded bronze plaques, in a whole bunch of categories. And any number of bags of gold and silver coin, for those who distinguished themselves. But mostly it was all about the winning. About proving who was the very best at what they did, in front of an admiring crowd. Preferably while grinding some hated enemy’s face into the mud while you did it. Nothing like settling an old score or a long-running feud in front of a crowd and the people who mattered. A lot of politicians got their start at the various tourneys, by performing deeds of an unquestionably heroic nature in public. And a lot of politicians who’d been kicked out of Parliament for being useless, or ethically or morally or financially corrupt, often turned up to fight again, in the hope of rebuilding their reputations. The Tourney organisers never tried to keep these people out; you had to provide someone for the crowds to boo and hiss at. There were always a few goodhearted stallholders selling rotten fruit to throw, too, because if the Tourney didn’t provide the right kind of things to throw, the crowds would start using their own ammunition. Everything from fresh manure to large, heavy things with jagged edges. And that could get out of hand really quickly. Crowds do so love to escalate.

The organisers also provided individual tents, for the Big Names and Major Players, brightly decorated with exaggerated scenes of previous triumphs at previous Tourneys. Then there were the larger tents, where up-and-comers and promising talents could get together and exchange good-natured banter, rough camaraderie, and death threats. And, of course, there were a couple of really big marquees for everyone else. The hopefuls, and the ambitious. Finally, there were hospital tents, gathered together and placed to one side, for the injured, the seriously damaged, and those on the way out. A large number of surgeons, healers, and priests could always be relied upon to turn up every year to man these tents, to do charitable work for the good of their souls and show off their various skills. A lot of the medical schools sent their most talented interns here, to learn things the schools couldn’t teach. Nothing like sawing off a smashed limb, while the patient was still very much alive and aware and screaming his head off, to teach you what battlefield medicine was all about. (The Big Names and Major Players brought their own surgeons and healers, of course. They wouldn’t be caught dead in one of the common medical tents.)

Crowds of eager onlookers started queuing up very early on, watching everything with keen interest but held back at a respectful distance by a larger than usual presence of armed and armoured security guards. Regular visitors to the annual Tourney passed the time swapping well-rehearsed tales of old battles and marvellous triumphs, and all the famous faces they claimed to have seen. These were not the kind of people who could afford the expensive advance tickets for the raked seating; they were waiting to be herded into the standing-room-only enclosures surrounded by strong wooden fences. To keep the overexcited in their place.

Security guards in what they fondly assumed were plain clothes wandered back and forth, on the lookout for familiar undesired faces. Pickpockets had become increasingly rare ever since the courts started lopping off the relevant fingers of repeat offenders. And gambling was strictly forbidden at the Tourney, because it encouraged interference by outside interests. If caught, both the bettor and the bet-taker would be immediately dragged away, thrust into a fighting circle, given swords, and told to fight it out for the amusement of the watching crowd. (Lots of rotten fruit here, and heavy jaggedy things every time.)

People came from all over, to observe and participate in the Grand Tourney, the most famous celebration of skills and courage in the Known Kingdoms. Some of the crowds travelled really long distances to get there. Not just from all over the Forest Land, but from Redhart and Lancre, and even the Southern Kingdoms. The Grand Tourney was a strictly enforced neutral ground. Anyone who broke the compact, or even tried to, could expect to be sent back home in a box. Or a large number of boxes.

Or a sack.

Every year the Grand Tourney drew a bigger audience, because this was where the heroes were. The famed swordsmen and the infamous sorcerers, and everyone who’d made a name for themselves one way or another. Soldiers back from the border, warriors fresh from fighting the colourfully named pirates from off the Lancre coast, and every wandering young hero and adventurer who hoped to make a name and reputation for himself by taking on all comers at the Grand Tourney.

This particular Grand Tourney had been postponed a month so it would coincide with the Royal marriage . . . and anticipation had only heightened the fervour of everyone concerned. The crowd was expected to be the biggest yet. Everybody who was anybody intended to be there, and people were crowding in from all around to make sure they didn’t miss anything at this once-in-a-lifetime affair.

Along with a few very unexpected arrivals. Though no one knew that just yet.

•   •   •

T
he dragon dropped off Hawk and Fisher, Jack and Gillian, and the dog Chappie a safe distance away from the Castle and the Tourney. He located a small clearing and dropped out of the sky like a stone, accompanied by several gasps and at least one scream from his passengers. He stretched his massive membranous wings wide at the very last moment, cupping the trapped air beneath him, and settled down to the grassy floor in a perfect landing. Hawk and Fisher climbed down one side, Jack and Gillian on the other. And then Hawk had to go back up and drag Chappie off. The huge dog still had his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and Hawk had to pry some of his claws loose from where he’d jammed them deep into gaps between the dragon’s scales. Hawk hauled Chappie down from the dragon, and into the clearing, whereupon the dog immediately pulled free, opened his eyes, and shook himself thoroughly.

“Dogs are not meant to fly!” he said loudly. “Did you feel that landing? My stomach’s still up in the clouds somewhere!”

“Calm down,” Hawk said kindly. “Let us not forget, you are so magical that even if you did fall off and hit the ground, odds are you’d bounce.”

“You try it first,” growled the dog.

“The Forest Castle is about a mile off,” said the dragon, indicating the direction with a nod from his massive bottle green head. “Which is about as close to the Castle as I care to get. I do not wish to have my presence detected by any of the Castle’s magic-users or by security people with really good eyesight. Partly because I don’t want the attention, partly so no one will make any connection between Hawk and Fisher and the very legendary Prince Rupert and Princess Julia; but mostly because . . . I don’t have good memories of my time at Forest Castle.”

“Not many do,” Hawk said dryly.

“But we take your point,” said Fisher. “There are a lot of good reasons why our turning up at the Castle with you could cause all kinds of problems. So you stay here, and keep yourself occupied, while we check out the Tourney.”

“I thought we wanted to talk to the powers that be?” said Jack.

“We do,” said Hawk. “And today of all days, the Tourney is where we’ll find them.”

“Suits me,” said the dragon. “I could use some quality time alone in the Forest.”

“Hunting?” said Fisher.

“No, it’s time to get my butterfly collection started again!” the dragon said cheerfully. “I’m sure all sorts of marvellous new varieties will have appeared during my absence. I just can’t wait! Tally-ho!”

He surged forward into the surrounding trees, seeming to somehow slip and slide between them, and just like that, his enormous bulk vanished into the shadows. For a while they could hear him crashing enthusiastically back and forth, and then even that was gone. Hawk looked at the others.

“Did any of you happen to see a really big butterfly net in his hands?”

“Definitely not,” said Fisher. “And I don’t even want to think where he’s been hiding it all this time.”

“The stories were true!” said Jack. “You really did befriend the only dragon in creation who collects butterflies rather than gold!”

“So, no treasure hoard,” said Gillian. She grinned briefly. “Saves having to fight him for it.”

“The Castle is that way,” sad Hawk. “Pick up your feet, everyone; the sooner we get there, the sooner we can start getting into trouble.”