Bad Prince Charlie Read online

  Gagnot’s challenge had arrived within an hour of Catherine’s imprisonment. Charlie sent his acceptance back by the same courier. The prince picked up the book. “What is this? The Code Duello, I suppose.”

  “No, Your Highness. The Code Duello is for the professional duelist. You’re an amateur, so you would be governed by the Code Duellittante. I brought a copy for reference.” Oratorio took the book and opened it to the contents page. “There’s a good deal about giving the lie. There’s the lie direct, the lie indirect, the lie incorrect, the lie invective—that’s when it’s accompanied by insult—and the lie subjective—when it’s all a matter of opinion.”

  Charlie looked over his shoulder. “And the lie subjunctive?”

  “I never figured that one out. The French use it sometimes. Anyway, who gives the lie determines who gets choice of weapons. The next chapter has to do with choosing your seconds, choosing your second helpings—that’s for after-dinner duels—and choosing the second seating, for duels on cruise ships.”

  “How very thorough.”

  “The rules state that the challenge must not be delivered at night. The combatants must have a chance for their tempers to cool and, if drunk, to get some sleep. It must not be delivered before breakfast, because an empty stomach makes a man short-tempered. And it must not be delivered in the presence of a beautiful woman, for a man may feel pressured to accept the duel to impress the woman and not due to the justice of his cause.”

  “What about the presence of an ugly woman?”

  “A true gentleman behaves as though all women are attractive.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Oratorio closed the book. “There’s plenty of reason for you to decline this duel, Your Highness. I’m sure Gagnot felt he had to issue the challenge when you accused his father of corruption. Not to do so would be tantamount to admitting his father’s guilt. But you don’t have to accept.”

  “I’ve already accepted, Oratorio. What do you think of the black plume?”

  “I’m afraid that plumes are not really to my taste.”

  “Mine, either.” Charlie ripped off the ostrich feathers. “I think we can do without those.” He picked up the broadsword, hefted it, slid it out of its scabbard, examined the edge minutely, slid it back into its scabbard, then passed the whole assembly to Oratorio for inspection. The captain of the Guard drew it and swung it over his head and around his shoulders a few times. He made a face. “The balance is not particularly good, Your Highness.”

  “Nor is the steel. I was trying to support local labor, even though we don’t have good armorers in Damask. I never expected to use the damn thing.”

  “Yes, they’re mostly just for ceremony.”

  “And I’m betting that’s all this is going to be. You know how these formal duels are supposed to go. Gagnot approaches with his entourage. I meet him with my entourage. Gagnot rides forward and issues his challenge. I ride forward and issue my acceptance. The judges inspect the weapons. The judges inspect the armor. The band plays. Everyone breaks for lunch. The ring is drawn. The judges inspect the ring. The Code is read out loud to the crowd. Our seconds are consulted. They confirm that we agree to abide by it. The band plays again. Everyone breaks for tea.”

  “I know what you mean, Sire. It’s easy to challenge someone to a duel, but few combatants are all that eager for the actual hacking and slashing to start.”

  “And neither are we. Do you think he’ll say, ‘So we meet again’ or ‘This time we finish it’? I bet he will. It’s just the sort of thing he’d say.”

  “I couldn’t say, Sire.”

  The prince looked him over. “I know you’re unhappy about Pollocks and Catherine, but the situation called for drastic action. Nothing changes for you. You’re still responsible for the defense of the castle.”

  “I know my duty, Sire.”

  “How is Rosalind taking this?”

  “Not well, Sire. She’s been crying.”

  “She’ll understand when this is all over. Listen, Oratorio, you know the situation. Surrender to Fortescue at the first opportunity. Make sure your men understand this. Don’t try to hold the castle against his army, whether I’m here or not. There’s no point to it. They’re professionals. They won’t mistreat you.”

  “Yes, Sire. The men have already been instructed.”

  “What time did Abe say? This isn’t going to be one of those riding out at dawn things, is it?”

  “No, Sire. We can expect him about mid-morning.

  “What I’m counting on,” said Charlie, “is that Gagnot won’t be able to control his men. With the right amount of goading, his lines will break down into a disorderly mob. He doesn’t have any experience in leading men in battle.”

  “Neither do we, Your Highness,” said Oratorio.

  Near the bottom of a steeply sloping mountain, on the outskirts of the port of Noile, a small hostel sat in the center of a small meadow. It was not a good location, because it was several hundred yards off the road, but it was the only piece of level ground in the area suitable for building. The surrounding woods gave it added privacy, and therefore it suited the monks of Matka very well. They booked all the rooms and slipped Xiao inside, disguised by one of their light blue hooded cloaks. She didn’t much care for the secrecy, but she’d been in the prophecy business long enough to appreciate the need for mysterious ways. She stood at the window, watching the wagons and the rest of the monks continue down the road to the port. Trees blocked her view of the harbor, but that morning she had seen it from the top of the mountain. And she had seen the ship, with its signature light blue sails, that would carry her away.

  “I’d like to go down with them,” she told one of her guardian monks. “I haven’t been to the city since I became the High Priestess. It would be nice to do a little shopping before I leave.”

  “Make a list of what you’re looking for and I’ll have someone pick it up before the ship sails.”

  “It’s not the same, Sing. I could go down after dark. In disguise.”

  Sing shook his head. “The shops will be closed in the evening. And you’re too difficult to disguise. With all of us around, people will be looking for you. A High Priestess has to appear with the pomp and ceremony appropriate to her station. You can’t just walk into a tavern and order an egg sandwich. People will lose respect for the office.”

  “Mmm.” Xiao left the window to flop down on the bed. She picked up a couple of trade books—The New Divination Handbook, 101 Vague All-Purpose Prophecies, and Advanced Cold Reading—flipped through them, and set them aside. “What time do I enter the city?”

  “They’re working up a schedule now. Not too early. Probably around lunchtime. Give the streets a chance to fill up. The advance team is working on it. We expect to have a pretty good crowd there to listen to your farewell speech.”

  “I have it memorized already. It’s not very exciting, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean I basically just say farewell, it’s been nice knowing you, be good, now go in peace and believe in yourselves. Does this sort of thing really inspire people? Does it ever do any good?”

  “No, but it’s traditional. What else can you say? ‘Good-bye, now go back to fighting each other’?”

  “I want a toke.”

  Sing looked surprised. “No, Your Worship. We’ve been through all that. That’s no longer part of your lifestyle.”

  “I know, I know,” Xiao said. “I’m not going to have one. I just said I wanted one.”

  “Have you studied your dossiers?”

  She gave the monk an exasperated look. “I already told you. I’m not going to memorize a thick file for every noble in Noile. Not just for a walk through town. The advance team is working up a crib sheet. All I want is a few obscure personal facts on each official I’m likely to meet.”

  The monk looked like he was about to disagree, but they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Another monk came in, with a deck
of index cards wrapped in brown paper. He gave them to Sing, who gave them to the High Priestess. She unwrapped them and shuffled through them quickly but thoroughly. “Perfect,” she told the men, favoring them with a smile. “I’ll memorize these tonight. They’re already convinced I know their past and their future. I just need to drop a few quips to reinforce the idea.”

  “These aren’t really deep, dark secrets,” said the second monk apologetically. “Mostly just gossip and public information.”

  “That’s all she needs,” Sing told him. “They already believe in her power. The High Priestess just needs to give their imaginations a little kick.”

  “But,” said Xiao. “I would like the full, updated dossier on Bad Prince Charlie. The latest information we have on him.”

  Both monks looked surprised. “Why?”

  “I’m just interested, that’s all.”

  “He’s in Damask. It’s not like he’s coming here for your speech. You’ve already said goodbye to him.”

  “Oh,” said Xiao, “who knows what the future holds?”

  Not surprisingly, Catherine had another sleepless night. Most of it was spent pacing up and down in her cage, periodically going to the window to see if the chopping block, by some slim chance, had magically disappeared. It was still there, well lit by moonlight. She wondered if it had ever been used before. Beheading was the punishment for those accused of treason, and up until now there hadn’t been much of a problem with treason in Damask. No other country cared to learn its secrets and no one outside of the royal family had a particularly strong urge to rule it. It was entirely possible that she would be breaking in a new block.

  In the next cage, the Marquis de Sadness and Lord Gagnot had gotten into a prolonged argument over Gagnot’s selling of the grain reserves, with the lord still maintaining it was his right to do with them as he pleased. The marquis had appealed to Catherine to support him. “The people are starving,” he said. “They have no bread to eat.”

  “Oh, let them eat muffins,” said Catherine crossly, for at this particular time in her life she was not concerned with anyone’s problems but her own. But as soon as she spoke, she regretted it. She had a suspicion that the line might go down in history as her last words, and it didn’t sound quite right. Let them eat scones? Let them eat croissants? No. Let them eat doughnuts? Definitely wrong. Brioche? No, that was just bread again. The word was right on the tip of her tongue and she couldn’t bring it out.

  She was still pondering and pacing long after the rest of the cell block had dropped off to sleep. She looked at the chopping block again. A cat was sitting on top of it. There were few rats in the Barsteel. There was not enough food lying around to attract them and a regular coterie of cats to discourage them from moving in. Too bad, thought Catherine. She would have liked to see a rat in her cage right now. She would have kicked its beady little eyes out.

  She lay down on the bed, then got up again and went to the window. She decided she would stay up all night and watch the sunrise. It might be the last sunrise she would ever see. She was at the window for an hour before she remembered that it didn’t face east. The sun wouldn’t shine in her window until past noon. She wondered what was taking Albemarle Gagnot so long. Men! You couldn’t count on them for anything. Sure, they were quick enough with the flowers and little gifts, but expect a simple task from them, like going to the greengrocer to pick up a head of lettuce, or breaking you out of an impregnable prison, and they had nothing but excuses.

  Discouraged, she went back to the bed and sat down. She wondered if she should start crying. If she started now, she would be all cried out by ten and she could go to her death with a brave face. She decided against it. She couldn’t do it now without waking the other prisoners, and they would tell the story, and she would go down in history as a weak woman. That would not do at all. She would just have to tough it out. Besides, Abe could show up at any moment and she didn’t want her face to be puffy and red-eyed.

  Time passed. It grew light outside. The other prisoners stirred. Catherine remained sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the floor, swinging one foot. A noise came from the stairwell, someone climbing up slowly. She frowned. The guard said he would be sleeping in. He shouldn’t be here for hours. Were they going to bring her some sort of last meal? The stairwell door opened and she saw the black hood of the executioner.

  At once the other prisoners were on their feet, clinging to the bars. Lord Gagnot looked horrified. The Marquis de Sadness was licking his lips and breathing heavily. No one said a word. They watched silently as the black-clad figure unlocked the door to Catherine’s cage. She remained sitting, staring at him in shock. “You’re early,” she said. “You’re not due for hours.”

  He said nothing, merely pulling her to her feet and out of the cage. Numbly, she allowed him to lead her to the stairwell door. It wasn’t until the door closed behind her that she offered some resistance. “No!” she said hoarsely, slipping her arm out of his grasp and shrinking back against the wall. “No! It’s not time yet.” One foot slipped on a stair. She fell on her bottom. Behind the eye openings, bloodshot eyes looked down at her curiously. “It’s not ten o’clock. That’s what you said. Remember? About ten. Tennish? Champagne cocktails?” She got back up, grabbing the front of the black wool shirt. “I still have time!”

  In spite of herself, she started to cry. But at once she stifled the sobs and wiped the tears away on the backs of her hands. She was not, she was not, going to surrender her dignity in front of this man.

  The executioner took both of her hands in his and gently raised her to her feet. For the first time she noticed how old his hands were, how veined and gnarly. He slipped one finger under the edge of his hood and tugged it upward. She raised her eyes to his face. A white beard appeared, slightly stained with wine, and then a mass of unkempt white hair, surrounding a wrinkled, kindly face. He smiled at her.

  “Pollocks?” she said.

  “Your bastard prince regent made a grievous error,” Albemarle noted with grim satisfaction. He was fixing thick wool pads to his shoulders, while his squire fixed the plates of mail to his lower body. “The choice of weapons was his, yet he chose broadswords. I know full well he’s never been in the heavy cavalry. It’s unlikely he has any sort of experience in fighting with a heavy sword and shield. I doubt he’ll even be able to stay on his horse.”

  Both Packard and Gregory nodded thoughtfully. They were in the armory of Gagnot’s manor house. Packard was seated in the room’s only other chair. Gregory was standing and leaning on his cane. The walls around them were hung with a variety of weapons; mostly heavy sabers and cut-and-thrust swords, with a scattering of lighter blades; foils and épées and even a court sword. The lighter blades tended to be more ornate. Some even had jewels in the hilts. But the heavier steel was simple and functional. Gregory noticed they all had certain things in common. They were well oiled, free of rust, and sharpened to a wicked edge.

  “I wonder,” said Packard, “if he thought he would be safer fighting from within a coat of mail.”

  “If he did, he’s mistaken,” said Gagnot. “The armor he has is undoubtedly ceremonial. It’s designed to look good, not for actually fighting. The protection it offers is secondary to that.” He tapped the steel on his chest. “This is the real thing, designed to be worn in battle. And it’s proved very effective in our training sessions. It’s simple, it’s functional, and it’s tough.”

  “So you’re certain you’ll have no trouble defeating him?”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “I can’t tell you how much we regret this,” said Gregory. “We had no idea things would come to such a pass.”

  “In a few hours his time will have passed. Right now my concern is Lady Durace. I wonder if we should try to force our way into the Barsteel and free her and my father now.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that is wise,” Packard said quickly. “They’re probably safer there, protected against any street violence that
might break out.”

  “But he might decide to execute her before the duel. I know his type. It’s the sort of vindictive thing he’d do.”

  “Have no fear,” said Gregory. “Remember, the whole city knows he’s coming out to fight a duel with you. Charlie might give an order for an execution, but no one will carry it out until they see who wins the duel.”

  Gagnot looked at his clock. “There is still time. Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit before I ride out.”

  “No!” Gregory said quickly. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you know how women worry,” said Packard. “It would just upset her if she knew you were going out to fight a duel.”

  “Because she cares so much for you,” said Gregory.

  “Good point. I won’t tell her about the duel. I just want to see that she is all right.”

  “You’re already dressed. You won’t have time to remove your armor and put it back on again. I’ll tell you what. Packy and I will visit her and give her your assurance that you will force her release.”

  “I’d like to tell her myself,” said Gagnot reluctantly. “But I suppose you’re right.” He picked up his helmet and stroked the feathers adorning the top. “What do you think of these plumes?”

  “I rather like them,” said Packard.

  “What is this?” said General Fortescue.

  “A gryphon,” said the sculptor. He flattened the sketch on the table for a better view.

  “I asked for a horse.”

  “I want to try something new.”

  “I commissioned you because you’re the best sculptor of equestrian statues in the Twenty Kingdoms. I asked for a horse because I want a horse.”

  “I’m tired of doing horses. I want to expand.”

  “And what is this?” Fortescue flipped the sketch over and studied the next one in the stack. “A tiger?”

  “Exactly,” said the sculptor proudly. “It’s symbolic. Riding the back of a tiger represents the problems you faced when you decided to restore order to Noile.”