Nightlord: Orb (105 page)

“Doesn’t he look natural.”

“Excuse me?”

“At his funeral.  I’d be thinking, ‘Doesn’t he look natural?’ after the undertakers finished with his corpse.  Assuming they didn’t cremate whatever was left.  If I leave the head pretty much intact, they can hide the rest of the injuries—”

“Let me try again,” Mary interrupted, squeezing my arm meaningfully.  Fingertips between the bicep and bone, right where it hurts.  “Let’s say you know someone who has no children, but consistently does hard drugs, pimps for low-budget porn movies, and beats his wife even though she never complains in public.  You know it, but you stay out of it because it’s not your business, right?”

“…right,” I agreed, reluctantly.

“For years, he does this.  It’s his life.  That’s the way it is.  Then, one day, for no apparent reason—at least, no reason
you
saw—he suddenly becomes a model citizen.  Goes to church on Sunday, pays his taxes, gets a working-class job, drives his wife to therapy sessions, joins the neighborhood watch, volunteers at the homeless shelter, and mows his lawn.  The works.  Do you buy it?”  She shifted her grip to a more gentle one.

“Hmm.  What do you mean by ‘buy it’?”

“He’s a new man.  He hates drugs, won’t even watch porn, and will never lay an ungentle hand on his wife again.  Unless she insists,” Mary added.  I thought about it.

“No… I suppose I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because people don’t change like that.  I’m tempted to say people don’t change at all.  The overnight switch is too much to believe.  He’s still a drug-using, porn-producing, wife-beating person, even if he doesn’t want to be one at the moment.  He’s not doing it right now, sure.  Whatever it was inside him that made him that kind of person is still there.  I admit, I tried to push Mark into a turnaround by scaring him, but I knew he wasn’t going to really be a model citizen.  I expected him to behave better, not be a saint.”

“And?”

“And… that’s your point,” I admitted, sadly.

“Go on.  Explain it to me.”

“For nine years, I was a nasty bastard who earned the nickname of the Demon King.  Now, after being absent a few months, I’m back and I’ve turned over a new leaf.  I’m a better person, despite still being a blood-drinking monster.  Most people aren’t going to believe it even if I spend nine more years being Arthur at Camelot and pouring out the Holy Grail on anyone who wanders near me.”

“I’d say you’d have to wait at least a couple of generations,” Mary suggested.  “All the existing people will have to die off and their children and children’s children will have to grow up knowing you as a figure with a bright halo.”

“This is a problem, yeah, but some people will believe me!”

“Only if they already believe
in
you,” she countered.  “Seldar sounds like one.  Tort, whenever you find her.  T’yl, too.  And, of course, your daughter and granddaughter.  That Beltar guy.  Maybe a few others.  Maybe Dantos—I’m not sure about him.  He regards you with a sort of religious awe.  He might not care if you’re the Demon King or not; he’ll still do anything you tell him to.”

“He’s a special case. 
Nekelae
are demigods to the People of the Plains.  It’s our job to be terrors in the night while they placate us and ask for our protection.”  I paused for thought.  “Actually, I’m not sure a
nekela
is a nightlord.  It could be a necromancer.”

“So, am I a nekke-lay?  Or a nightlady?”

“Ask Dantos.  I’m sketchy on the plains details.”  I paused for thought.  “I don’t think I’ve eaten many of them.”

“I will, and I’ll let you know.  So, did you get my point?”

“About being the Demon King no matter what I do?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.  I don’t like it.”

She gently squeezed my arm and pushed the pivot-door to a kitchen.

“I didn’t think you would.  Is it too early for lunch?”

“I don’t think I’m hungry.  And you can always call it brunch.”

“Suit yourself.”

I left her to her meal while I went for a walk around the halls.  She had a good point about the Demon King problem and she finally drove it through my thick skull.  My public image is
awful
.  While it’s probably totally justified regarding the Demon King,
I’ve
been defamed, slandered, libeled, misrepresented… I need more words.  I need a public relations manager.  I need a public relations
firm
.

Where’s Linnaeus when I need him?

Dead.  And his only living descendant is working against me, last I checked.

There’s a thought.

I can’t convince a kingdom I’m a changed man.  Can I convince one person?  Could I persuade Tyma it was a demonic Thing that killed her father, using my body?  If I could get her on my side instead of trying to set my side on fire, it would help.  Not today, nor tomorrow, but perhaps in a year or ten, rather than a generation or three.

Which left me with two big questions.

First, how do I find her?  She’s probably well-hidden, cloaked behind walls of magic to foil location spells.  She would have to be to survive this long.  My other self would have turned her into minstrel chops and fed her to something unpleasant.

Or would he?  Would he care?  He strikes me as the type to have a sensitive ego, so he could have hated any sort of mockery, been sensitive to anything that could be viewed as an attack on his dignity.  On the other hand, it’s almost a requirement to have at least a six-pack of overconfidence to go with the case of megalomania.  After murdering Minaren, he might have dismissed her as beneath his notice.  It was also possible people never again brought any of her work to his attention—the consequences of bearing bad news and all that.  Interesting.  I’ll have to ask.  It was tough to know which way to call it.

The other big question was somewhat more stomach-churning.  Assuming I get to talk to Tyma without her trying to strangle me with her harpstrings, how do I open up such a conversation?  An elaborate apology?  Explanations?  Disavow all knowledge?  Shift blame?  Or say I’m sorry?

That’s tricky.  Maybe I should let her punch me as much as she wants some evening.  It might help her get it out of her system.  I really don’t know, but beating on me until she’s too exhausted to move might let her feel better.  Worth a shot, I suppose.

Despite all the souls I’ve consumed, I still don’t understand people.

As I headed through the palace toward my workroom, Dantos crossed my path.  He stopped and saluted.  I returned it.

“My King, there are a number of guests who greatly desire audience.”

“Oh?  Who are they?”

“Former knights of the Baron Gosford, Sire.”

“I suspect I know where this is going, but I suppose I should ask.  Why do they want to see me?”

“They would serve the King, Sire.”

“Thought so.  All right, I’ll see them.  Lead on.”

Dantos walked with me through the cavern-halls.

“How many are there?” I asked, as we walked.

“Six, Sire.”

“Did they show up as a group?”

“Yes, Sire.  They returned with me through the under-door.”

“That’s odd.  I should have had an alarm go off.”

“Sire?”

“I should have noticed them coming in,” I clarified.  “You were with them?”

“Yes, Sire.  I escorted them to quarters pending your attention.”

“Hmm.  I’ve probably goofed somewhere in the links to the authorization protocols.  It should still alert everyone even if an authorized user is present.  I’ll have to look at it.”  I thought about it as we walked and changed my mind.  Having a psychic alarm go off and alert everybody in the palace could become annoying in short order.  Imagine a front door with an automatic doorbell going off every time it opens.  Now add a dozen kids to the house.

Yeah, maybe I accidentally set the authorization protocols up correctly.  It wasn’t what I meant to do, but occasionally I do get lucky.

Dantos shoved a pivot-door and we entered the public bath area.  Small cleansing pools to the left, draining under the row of toilets.  Hot pool, cold pool, and a swimming-pool-sized lounging pool.  The room was much warmer than I expected, but I had only been in the place once.  Maybe the mountain re-routed some heat to it when people started to occupy the space around it.

Half a dozen men were lounging in the main social pool when we came in.  Their conversation came to an abrupt halt and water splashed as they scrambled out.  Moments later, I had six triathlon models kneeling before me, dripping, naked, and holding swords across their palms.

“We beseech thee, our King,” they recited, more or less in unison, “to our petition, that you deign to bless with the might of thy hand this sword with which thy servant desires to be girded, that it may be a defense for those who cannot defend themselves, that it may be the terror and dread of all who would act against the realm, and that it may be just and right in both attack and defense.”

I looked at Dantos.  He looked back at me.

“You know these men?” I asked.

“I do.”

“Would you trust them to safeguard Caris while assassins roam the halls, looking for me?”

“I would.  I know them.”

“Then they’ll have their chance.”

One by one, I took swords, traded oaths, and handed swords back.  When I finished, they remained on one knee.

“Now, you’re knights by the grace of the King and an inside straight. You’ve been knights to a baron.  This will be a bit more difficult.  You know Sir Beltar?”  They did.  “Good.  He’s one of my knights.  Go tell him what just happened here, then do whatever he says.  He’s senior, and he knows what I want done.  Get dressed and get going.”

They dressed and Dantos attracted my attention.

“Sire?”

“Yes?”

“Shall I go also?”

“No, you have duties here.  But you might talk to Beltar when you have a chance.  He’s familiar with the training regimen for the Order of Shadow.”

“I will do so immediately, Sire.”

“Good man.  Now, I need something to eat and a change of clothes; I’ve sweated straight through this outfit.”

In the privacy of my own chambers, I called Beltar on the Temple’s mirror and explained what was coming to him.  He promised to see to the additional training and exercises.  I didn’t press him for details; he said he could handle it, therefore, he could handle it.

I rinsed off and dressed, preparatory to getting something to eat, when Dantos pushed open the outer door of my chambers and called for me.  I suppose I need a doorbell or an intercom or something.  I know I used to have a bell with a pull-rope in my private quarters.  Whatever became of that?  Maybe it’s a drawback of having a mutable mountain.  Things you thought were permanent fixtures are actually optional.

“Yes?” I asked, emerging from the bedroom area.

“My King, the Queen requests your attention on the magic mirror.”

“Thank you.”  I jogged to the mirror room; I didn’t want to keep her waiting.  Lissette was in the mirror, in profile, obviously talking to someone else.  I seated myself in front of the mirror and she gestured the unseen person to silence.  We regarded each other for several moments.

Yes, she was older.  I would have guessed more than nine years older, but with nine years, several children, and the stresses of being Queen, her appearance was about right.  Let’s not even get into the troubles involved with being married to the Demon King.  I wondered what their private life was like.  I doubted she had an easy time of it.

“What do you want?” she asked, coldly.

I was suddenly certain she had a hard time of it.

“What I want,” I replied, slowly, thinking hard, “is to say I’m sorry.  The Demon King is gone, thanks to Tort, T’yl, Tianna, Firebrand, Bronze, and others.  I’m me again.”

“Fine.  What do you propose, now that you are yourself again?  Do you plan to take the throne and rule?  Will you be coming to the palace to be a father to our children?  Or is there some new territory you wish to conquer?”

“Um.  This is not how I pictured this conversation going,” I admitted.  Her eyebrows rose as her eyes widened.

“Oh?  How did you think it was going to go?  The little wife would welcome back her husband with open arms?  The Queen would bow before the King and you would have your way in everything?  A few words of apology and all would be forgiven and forgotten?  You wanted to talk to me.  Talk!”

I’d forgotten she was beautiful when she was angry.  So many women aren’t.  Lissette became colder as she grew angrier, until she could be a statue carved from marble.  And yet, her whole face was somehow suffused with an almost surreal quality of vitality, as though she was even more alive.

I didn’t say any of that.  If she wanted to be all business, I could try to match her.

“All right.  Fact: I’m here.  Fact: I’m in Karvalen—what they’re calling the Fortress of the East.  Fact: I’ve taken up residence and intend to stay here for some time.  Are you with me so far?”