Treachery of Kings

TWENTY-SEVEN

Before Finn could object, Dostagio assured him they would not be staying in the suite of Celestial Bliss, as the storm had caused some flooding down below.

Instead, they were to be quartered in the Merchants, Second Class Envoys and Craftsman's wing, directly across from Brewers amp; Butchers’ Hall.

“It is not a sanctified area,” Dostagio said, “but I think you'll be comfortable there.”

“We'll try,” Finn said, with a glance at Letitia, for he knew, at once, what was on her mind. If the room wasn't holy, if you didn't have to be dead, then it might have an ordinary bed.

If Finn thought he'd seen every odd and extraordinary sight, every strange and unnatural event since they'd come to Heldessia Land, now he would have to think again.

As they made their way from the dome, down a wide passageway with the usual dread decor, Dostagio stopped of a sudden and drew them into a small, open anteroom off the main hall.

Before Finn could question this action, Letitia made a breathless little sound, an “oh!” and an “oh dear me!” or something of the sort.

Following her glance, he saw the procession just as it appeared in the passageway. One did not need a quick mind, a keen intellect, to recognize a royal train. Every beggar, every thrall, even those of little wit in every land, had seen such a caravan before.

There is little, Finn thought, that a royal likes to do more, unless it be nothing at all. Even here, in the palace itself, where no one could watch, except those who saw it every day, the stately march went on. A royal couldn't go to supper, or see to his bodily needs, without a cortege of some degree.

Still, he noted, this indeed was no ordinary flock of noble birds. The strut, the color and the plumage were there, but this court had a definite image of its own.

The usual cast was there. He had seen them all, in one guise or another, at Prince Aghenfleck's Great Hall: Lords, ladies, chancellors and counts. Puffy ministers and knobby diplomats. Elders, councilors, generals and fools.

All in order of their rank, according to their place, each in proper attire. The code of dress among the titled and the toadies, and those who scamper in between, is rigid, fixed and not to be denied. Every pleat, every tuck, every doublet, robe, buskin or sash, reveals your true station. Or, if you dare, who you'd like to be.

The gaudy, the vulgar, the garish and the crude commit no sin at all in their attire. Often, they simply set the trend. This day, Finn noted, fashion favored the harness, the cassock and a splendid excess of lace. And every soul from the highborn to the Master of the Sewer wore some shade of purple, pansy, plum, orchid, lilac or mulberry hue.

All, that is, except King Llowenkeef-Grymm. He was dressed in tatters, rags and shreds. Torn, ripped, shabby bits of clothing that dragged along behind him in a long and dreary train. The royal colors were soot, smoke, bone and a maggoty tone of gray. The King's face was coated in ash, and his eyes were circled in black. And, though there were surely other members of the Royal Family about, only the King himself appeared to be here.

It struck Finn, then, that fashion in Heldessia's palace was precisely opposed to that of Aghen Aghenfleck's court. There, the Prince wore a bright array of colors, and his court was allowed only black. One ruler adored every shallow path of life, while the other celebrated death.

“Which of the two is more witless than the other,” Finn muttered to himself, “is a mystery to me.”

No one could have heard these words, for they were faint as spider breath. Yet, someone did, indeed. Finn had scarcely spoken before he felt the presence, saw its piercing eyes, felt it clutch his heart in a chill and alien hand.

Finn staggered, reached out in blind desperation for something, anything to keep him from falling weakly to the floor.

“Finn, love, what is it, what's wrong!?”

Letitia caught him and eased him gently to the floor.

“Don't know… hurts, Letitia. It hurts awfully bad…”

Letitia's voice was fraught with alarm. Dostagio, though, showed no concern at all.

“He is quite all right, Miss. Truly. There is nothing you can do.”

“What do you mean he's all right? Look at him. He's white as he can be!”

“The fellow is right,” Julia put in. “I can hear his pulse. It's normal. Or as normal as a pulse can get with Finn.”

“You're a lot of help. He doesn't look normal to me.”

“I'm-all right. Just back off a little. Going to be-sick right here.”

“I wish you wouldn't, sir. Not until His Grace's party passes by. It's not the proper thing to do.”

Finn didn't hear, surely didn't care. He crawled to the rear of the small alcove and rid himself of breakfast, lunch and dinner in the air the day before, and, it seemed, a great deal more.

Still, through the agony and the pain that wracked his bodily parts, the image of those cold and penetrating eyes refused to go away. He saw them, clearly, saw where they belonged, saw the gaunt features and the cruel and pitiless mouth.

And, for an instant, the image expanded, and Finn saw beyond the creature itself. Saw that it walked directly in the shadow of the King…