[Kelvin 03] - Chimaera's Copper (with Robert E. Margroff) (7 page)

"YOU! Keep ME out of trouble?! You, young pupten, have been trouble since you were hatched!"

"I wasn't hatched. I was found under a rock, same as you."

"Probably you were. And old Melbah then took complete charge of you."

The boy's face fell. Immediately St. Helens regretted saying it. Bantering insults were one thing, but real ones were another. There was too much truth in Melbah's early influence over the lad.

"I'm sorry, St. Helens." Phillip's voice trembled. "If you really don't want me along--"

"Now where'd you get a dumb idea like that! Of course I want you along! Glad to have your company. What would I do for trouble without you?"

"But you said--"

"I say a lot of things. Curse of the Irish--one of the curses, anyhow. Haven't I taught you about jokes?"

"Eh, yes. Like when you said 'That girl has nice jugs!' when anyone could see she carried wine bottles."

Ouch! Under Melbah's evil care the young king hadn't gotten out much. A trip or two with the old man might add immeasurably to the lad's education. "You happen to notice anything else about her, lad?"

"She had an excellent figure. I'm surprised you didn't realize that."

Well, maybe there was hope; he was beginning to catch on to the basics. "Maybe next time." "I can really be a lot of help, you know. I was king once, if only in name. I can tell you the protocol that's expected, and then you won't embarrass us."

"Tell you what, Phil. If you catch the old saint crapping on the carpet, you speak right up."

"Oh I will, St. Helens, I will. Only you didn't do that, even in Aratex. I'd have smelled it if you had."

St. Helens rolled his eyes upward. Smart kid, but sometimes he was a smarty pants. A little dusting of the britches cured that, but royal posteriors presented problems.

"Just let's say that I'll appreciate your help. Whenever and however." And if ever.

But Phillip was now looking back the way they had come. A horse was approaching with a rider. As the horse drew closer the uniform of a palace guard was evident.

"Now why would one of those fellows be riding after me?" St. Helens asked. "Something new come up?"

The rider was a young guardsman St. Helens had seen at the palace but not spoken to. He could have sworn the fellow rode the king's favorite horse.

"Messenger Reilly," the guardsman gasped. "I'm from the palace detail, but I'm on my own. I've heard a lot about you, how you fought the witch and all. Sir, I'm Charley Lomax."

"I recognize you, close enough. What's the urgency?"

Lomax eyed the boy. "It's for your ears alone, St. Helens."

"You can speak in front of Phil. I trust him."

Charley Lomax, Royal Guardsman, breathed rapidly in and out. His brows knitted as if he were forcing a difficult thought. "Sir, I beg permission to accompany you on your mission to Hermandy."

"The king send you?" This was indeed strange.

"No, sir. As I said, I'm doing this on my own."

St. Helens had heard, but hadn't assimilated it. "You mean you're deserting your post?" He didn't like this. Deserters always had his sympathy, but helping one was trouble.

"I mean I wish to serve the true interest of my king and country. I know that you do too, Messenger Reilly, so --"

"You serve your king by deserting him?" St. Helens asked sharply.

"I don't believe the man at the palace is the king."

There it was. "You did right. Very right. Certainly you can accompany me." Then, after a pause: "And call me St. Helens."

"Thank you sir!" Lomax exclaimed, breaking into a grin. "St. Helens, sir!"

The man was in trouble with the man who wore the crown, he thought. If his guess was correct, all of them were about to be in similar trouble. If they couldn't head off that trouble, they would have to prepare to meet it head-on.

They rode on together, the three of them, on Messenger Reilly's mission to Hermandy.

Lester, sweating under the new bronzed helmet with its ostark feather marking him as officer, reviewed the assembled troops. Up and down the columns he rode. From the back of the fine gelding he had been given he looked down into the disciplined faces. Now and then he inspected a sword or crossbow. Briefly he examined the mobile catapults. He felt, he had to admit to himself, and only to himself, like a total fool. Here he was pretending to be an officer when he had never before been one. Serving a king who was probably an impostor, he couldn't have said why. It was one bad, bad situation. He pulled the reins on his horse's bridle and steered around the huge wheels on the last catapult in line toward his father. Mor, though having been born to fight, looked as uncomfortable in a general's uniform as he felt.

"General Father," Les said in a low voice, "you see anything wrong with these?"

"Top-notch," Mor replied. "The finest mercenaries and equipment Throod had."

Yes, Lester thought, the finest bought fighters. Each trained to kill or die for the cause that pays and never once to question the rightness or the wrongness. Each trained to believe soldiering the highest calling. Good soldiers all, damn it, and not the sort to doubt.

"You want to make the speech, Father? You've got the wind for it."

Mor gave him an almost invisible frown, then stepped his horse around the catapult. He was a big man, on a big war-horse.

"Men," Mor boomed, "we are about to march into Klingland and Kance, the twin kingdoms ruled by twin brothers. Half of you will go to Klingland. Half will go with my son, General Lester Crumb, into Kance. While we are marching, Sean Reilly, whom you know as St. Helens, hero of the war with Aratex, will be on a secret mission to secure Hermandy as an ally. Our armies will meet after victory in the twin capital of Lonris on the Thamesein River. Any questions?"

As Les had expected, there were none. Military commanders normally did not speak that way to troops, and certainly did not ask for questions. The troops might be bemused by this approach. But Mor and Les were not militarily trained except in the fires of revolution. In the war for Rud and then again in the war with Aratex they had served interests they had entirely believed in. It was too bad the same could not be said in this case.

"Then we march. And may the gods smile and bring us united to an easy victory."

Yes, but what victory? To Les, victory was holding Jon lovingly in his arms. That little tomboy could be extremely feminine when she chose! Sticking a sword in a stranger wasn't in the same league. Oh, if only Kelvin comes to our rescue again! Oh if only, for I fear we are making a mistake.

Unbidden, a thought came to him. If their king was really an impostor from the frame Kelvin and his brother Kian had visited, then could Kelvin be safe? If the impostor had done something evil to their rightful king, what of the roundear who had bested him? Wouldn't that evil man want revenge?

He was afraid to come too close to an answer. Anyway, it was time to march.

The Brownberries had been in need, all right! The man was struggling to bring in the harvest before the season turned, and the woman was ill with the ten-day fugue. The daughter was just fifteen, and willing and able to work, but could not do enough.

The crux of the problem was this: one man could cut and haul the brownberry plants if he had to, with the help of his good horse. But immediately after cutting they had to be brought inside and the long fibers separated before they hardened. That was a two-person job. If the man took the time to work with his daughter on the separation, he would not have time to complete the arduous cutting and hauling, and much of the crop would be spoiled. But if he did not, the separation could not be done.

Hal's unexpected arrival had been welcomed with something almost like tears. He was not skilled in brownberry farming, but that didn't matter; the girl was.

So now he was seated opposite her in the curing shed, holding the root-end of each plant while she deftly separated each long fiber at the blossom-end, and stretched it out until it came neatly away from the main body of the stem. A good stem could have as many as a dozen of the tough fibers, each of which could in due course be woven into the developing fabric of a new brownberry shirt. Then the squeezed juice of the berries would dye that shirt the traditional brown. Those shirts were the best and cheapest staple of local apparel; almost every rustic wore one.

This also meant that Hal had spent the day doing little except gaze at the young woman opposite him, Easter Brownberry. She had seemed like a plain girl, but now that he saw her in her area of expertise, her hands moving quickly and cleverly, he realized that it was only her shyness. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, the exact color of brownberry, the tresses moving like snakes as her head turned. Easter was well endowed for her age, and her face was attractive as she concentrated. Her breasts shifted slightly within her own brownberry shirt as her arms drew out the fibers. Every so often she glanced at him and smiled, letting him know that she appreciated his help, even though he was only holding. She became even more attractive when she did that.

Then he took a turn, because Easter was tiring. She had to take him through it in pantomime first, standing behind him and reaching around to guide his arms in the necessary motions. The fibers did not just let go; they had to be tweaked just so.

Hal felt her bosom pressed against his back. It was almost as if she were embracing him.

He went a little crazy then. He turned within her arms, coming to face her. He kissed her.

Easter was so surprised she almost fell. "Mr. Hackleberry!" she exclaimed.

Damn! Why had he done that? He was not a man to take advantage of a girl young enough to be his daughter!

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I'll leave."

"But--but the job isn't done!" she protested.

True. "Then I will do it. I promise not to touch you again. I don't know what happened."

They resumed the work. But now when Easter glanced at him, she did not smile. Hal felt terrible.

Finally, shyly, she asked, "Mr. Hackleberry, did you mean it?"

"Of course I did! I had no business touching you, and I won't--"

"I mean," she murmured, blushing as she averted her gaze, "when you kissed me?"

"I said I had no business--"

"But did you?" she persisted, still blushing.

"Yes," he said. "You are a most attractive girl. But--"

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do! But that's no excuse to--"

"I guess you want a quiet affair."

"I never intended to--" he began.

"Mr. Hackleberry, I think you're great, the way you came to help us out. Nobody ever thought I was pretty, before. So if you want to go to the loft--"

"No!" he protested.

"I've never done it," she said. "But I'd sure like to do it with you, Mr. Hackleberry."

Hal stared at her, realizing that she was serious. He was helping her, he found her attractive, and she was flattered, so she was ready to jump into the hay with him. The worst of it was, he was so strongly tempted.

Heln was worried and she let Dr. Sterk know it. It wasn't that she had any great faith in the physician as anything other than a doctor, but talk she must.

"Hmmm, young lady," the royal physician said, his eyebrows rising like a crest and making his sharp features even more birdlike. "You say the king is not the king, and--"

"Yes! Yes! He must be that look-alike Kelvin told us about. If he is, he's got round ears like mine and Kelvin's. He can't have pointed ears like you and King Rufurt." Dr. Lunox Sterk did a little hop from one foot to another, a characteristic that heightened his bird impression. "I think, young lady, that you're imagining. Many women think strange things when they're with child."

"Damn it, Doctor," Heln said, feeling herself getting angry. It was awful to be treated like an unreasonable person, especially when one felt that way already. "You can at least look, can't you? King Rufurt never wore a stockelcap in his life. This king always wears one pulled down around his ears. Isn't that strange?"

"Young Lady, the king is the king. What he wants he does. It is not for you or me or any other subject to question."

"Horse droppings!" Heln said, adopting one of her natural father's crude expressions, slightly edited for decency. "We have to find out if it's the king with the round ears. You have to find out!"

"Young lady, you are being most difficult."

"Darned right," Heln said, now trying a pose of Kelvin's sister, again suitably edited. "And I intend to be more difficult. Either you get a look at his ears and tell me that they are pointed, or--or--I'll leave the palace!"

"Leave the palace!" Dr. Sterk was alarmed. "Really, that would never be allowed. I have my orders. Your husband wouldn't want--"

"Wouldn't want me here if the king is the evil impostor!" she retorted smartly.

The doctor held up bony hands. "Calm yourself! It's not good for you to get excited. For the sake of the child, be calm."

"I'll be calm if you'll check his ears. Will you?"

He sighed. She had him over a barrel. If she miscarried or left the palace, he would get much of the blame. "Yes. Yes, I will try to. But the king isn't acting irrationally, for a king. Kings are different. He may be losing his hair, or it may be turning gray, so he's covering it up. Kings can be even more vain than women."

Heln realized that the good doctor thought he was exaggerating for effect. She managed to disregard the insult to women, and fixed him with her eyes. "Forget the hair. Check the ears."

"I--will try. If it's the hair that is disturbing him, I can prescribe a magic ointment."

Victory, maybe! "Now, Doctor," she said in her steeliest tone. She wasn't good at this, preferring normally to be soft and feminine, but she was desperate.

He went to the chamber door as if dismissed by royalty. Without another word, he exited.

Heln lay back on her pillow in the big four-poster bed and sighed. How totally unlike her! But it was necessary. Why have a sister-in-law like Jon if not to learn from her?

Yes, she thought dreamily. Yes, now we'll all know the truth of this matter.