Once In a Blue Moon (40 page)

“No,” Richard said evenly. “You’re quite right; the agreement must come first. Under the circumstances, I think we should be married first thing tomorrow morning. Seneschal, make the arrangements. The Princess’ safety must be assured.”

“Of course, your highness,” said the Seneschal.

King Rufus turned to the Seneschal. “First, summon my Necromancer. I have need of his abilities. He will uncover the truth of what has happened here.”

The entrance doors opened abruptly, somewhat to the surprise of the guards who’d just locked them. The doors swung wide and the guards fell back, as a young man dressed entirely in black strode into the suddenly silent hall. He advanced steadily through the massed tables, and everyone he passed shrank back from him.

“Who the hell is that?” murmured Catherine.

“That is Raven,” the Seneschal said quietly. “Our most powerful sorcerer. Called Raven because he always dresses in black, like a bird of ill omen. And yes, he often does turn up before he’s called for. It’s actually one of the least disturbing things about him.”

“Is he really . . . ?”

“A Necromancer? Oh yes. He deals in death, and the magic of murder.”

Raven the Necromancer was a tall, almost unhealthily slender fellow in his early thirties, with more than a touch of the theatrical about him. His long black robes swept around like dark wings as he moved, and when he pushed back his dark cowl it revealed a sardonic, even sinister face, with a shaven head, dark, piercing eyes, and a wide smile. He grinned broadly and looked around, sparing no one; the best thing that could be said about his smile was that it wasn’t deliberately unsettling. (There were those who said he cast too many shadows, and that you could hear the muttering of dead voices as he passed, but people said a lot of things about the Necromancer.) Raven finally came to the dead Lady, still lying across the table. Richard started to repeat what Dr. Stein had told him, but Raven stopped him with a look.

“I know,” said the Necromancer, in a calm, pleasant voice. “Poison. I can even tell you which poison. Belladonna.”

“How can he know?” said Catherine to the Seneschal.

“Because he knows everything there is to know about death, and murder, the spooky little creep,” said the Seneschal.

“I heard that!” said Raven, not looking round. And then he spun, in a whirl of dark robes, and looked up and down the hall. “And I know who the poisoner is. You!”

He stabbed an unwavering finger at a minor Member of Parliament, one Silas DeGeorge, at one of the lesser tables. Silas stood up immediately, while everyone else scrambled to get well away from him. No one was particularly surprised. DeGeorge was a well-known opponent in Parliament of the Peace agreement, and the wedding. His round face was pale and sweaty, and he looked furtively about him for signs of support, or just a way out.

“That’s it?” Catherine said to the Seneschal. “Raven just points the finger, and everyone accepts that the man’s guilty?”

“Pretty much,” said the Seneschal. “Raven’s never wrong. And anyway, look at DeGeorge.”

Silas DeGeorge glared defiantly at Raven. “What have we come to, when the King makes use of such as you? You’ll never get anything out of me! Long live the cause!”

He slipped a pill into his mouth and washed it down with a glass of wine. And then just like the Lady he’d murdered, he fell forward and was dead before he hit the table. There was a loud gabble of protest from everyone who’d been sitting anywhere near him, to make it clear they weren’t involved and knew nothing of what he’d planned. Richard had the guards move them away, and then stared coldly at the dead body of Silas DeGeorge.

“Raven?”

“Of course, your highness. I will need somewhere private to work.”

Catherine threw off restraining hands from Gertrude and the Sombre Warrior, and hurried over to join Richard. She glanced at Raven, and then at the Prince.

“He’s not joking, is he? He really is a Necromancer! How can you stand to have a man like that around you? In Redhart, we usually have them killed the moment they reveal themselves!”

“Well, cancel my holiday plans,” murmured Raven.

“Really powerful sorcerers are somewhat thin on the ground these days,” said Richard. “We feel it’s better to have him here, where we can keep an eye on him, and have some measure of control over him. And you are very loyal, aren’t you, Raven?”

“Of course, your highness,” said Raven, inclining his shaven head just a little.

“For your own reasons, no doubt.” Richard looked at Catherine. “Don’t you have any sorcerers at Redhart?”

“Only the healthy kind,” said Catherine.

“That’s what you think,” said Raven, smiling easily into Catherine’s glare before turning to bow to King Rufus, who’d just arrived.

“Can’t do it here,” the King said bluffly. “Not at all suitable, for a public place. Necromancy should always be a private matter. Seneschal! Is there any empty room nearby we can use?”

“Just down the corridor, Sire,” said the Seneschal.

The King looked at Raven, Richard, the Seneschal, and at the approaching Sombre Warrior. “Pick up the body, gentlemen. And follow me. And then we’ll see what answers we can get out of this most ignoble traitor.”

“I’m coming too,” Catherine said immediately.

“As you wish,” said the King. “But you don’t get to interfere. No matter what. Will your companion be joining us?”

Catherine looked back at Gertrude, who shook her head fiercely. Richard looked at the First Minister, who was politely comforting Gertrude, and he shook his head firmly too.

•   •   •

T
hey carried the dead man out of the Great Hall, and down the corridor, and into the empty room. They sat Silas DeGeorge in a chair and arranged him neatly. He looked very small, almost shrunken. Richard surreptitiously checked the man’s pulse, just to assure himself the murderer really was dead. He stepped back, and for a long moment everyone just looked at one another, not knowing what to say for the best. Finally King Rufus nodded stiffly to Raven, who smiled and bowed, then moved forward to stand before the body of Silas DeGeorge. The Necromancer made no mystical gestures, spoke no magical chants; he just looked the dead man in the eye and spoke directly to him.

“Silas DeGeorge, return to us. The Outer Reaches have no hold on you while I am here. My power calls you back, for a time. Speak to me and answer truly all questions that are put to you.”

And everyone in the room apart from Raven shrank back in revulsion as the corpse writhed and squirmed in the chair. Its eyes were fixed on Raven, though everyone could tell they didn’t focus. The stench of rot and corruption was heavy in the room. The corpse smiled slowly and began to speak, in a low, breathy voice that had no human inflection in it at all.

“Hello, Raven. They’ve been waiting for you to summon me back. They know your name, the Lords of the Gulf do. There is a price for the powers you use, and they can’t wait to make you pay it. Down here, in the Houses of Pain. What’s waiting for me is nothing compared to what they have in store for you.”

“Hush and be obedient, unquiet spirit,” said Raven, apparently entirely unmoved by the dead man’s words. “Speak only as you are commanded, and speak only the truth.”

“But I do, little Necromancer, I do . . .”

“Why did you kill Lady Melanie?”

“It wasn’t meant to be her,” said the corpse. “The poison was intended for Princess Catherine, to start a war. So many people in both Lands want this war, for so many reasons . . . You’d be surprised. How can you hope to stand against them? But somehow the poison in the wineglass missed its proper target. Ended up at the wrong table. Never trust a waiter . . . And no, before you ask—I have no idea where my orders came from. Just an anonymous note, pushed under my door.”

“Could he be lying?” Richard said quietly to the Necromancer. “Or holding something back from us?”

“He can’t lie with this level of compulsion on him,” said Raven. “But you have to ask the right questions . . . And I don’t know how much longer I can hold him.”

“Too late!” said the corpse, and once again everyone cried out and fell back as the body collapsed into rot and decay, falling apart before their eyes. Raven sighed and shook his head, and everyone else looked at one another and didn’t know what to say.

Raven finally bowed to King Rufus. “I have done all I can, Sire. You have a serious traitor in your midst. But you already knew that.”

“Did I?” said the King querulously. His eyes were vague again. He clutched at the Seneschal’s arm. “Take me out of here. I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be here.”

And while the others clustered round the King, and comforted him as best they could, Raven the Necromancer quietly left the room. Out in the corridor, he raised his eyes to the heavens.

“You’d better get here quickly, Grandfather and Grandmother. The Forest Land has great need of Prince Rupert and Princess Julia.”

SIX

SECRET MEETINGS, SECRET PEOPLE

T
he Stalking Man went walking through the corridors of Castle Midnight, and no one saw him. A tall, broad, fleshy man, dressed in long crimson robes with a bloodred cape and hood, he strode swiftly through crowded places, and no one knew he was there. He passed by Lords and Ladies, guards and servants, and some of them even stepped back to let him by, without ever realising or remembering.

Leland Dusque, the Stalking Man. The wrath of Hell in the world of mortal men.

He descended through long passageways and pillared galleries, and came at last to the very private door of a very private room, tucked away in a deep, dark part of the Castle where no one ever went without very good reason, or very express permission from the King himself. The armed guards on duty at that door saw the Stalking Man coming. Saw him come drifting forward out of the gloom, like a ghost soaked in blood and gore, saw his wide eyes and feral smile . . . because the Stalking Man allowed them. The two guards stood paralysed with fear until he was almost upon them, and then they fell back with almost indecent speed, scrambling to get out of his way. They were the King’s own guards, sworn to serve him with their lives and their deaths, but they wanted nothing to do with this. The King had told them the Stalking Man was coming, told them to expect him, but nothing could have prepared them for the awful reality of the Stalking Man, the Devil’s Agent, the Emissary of the Gulfs.

The guards stayed well back as the Stalking Man strode right up to the closed and locked door. He took hold of the heavy brass handle, and the guards heard the slow, steady sounds of the lock unlocking itself. Because no door and no lock could keep him out, or block his way. Just as no one could do him any harm, as long as he walked in Hell’s way.

He pushed the door open and walked through, and it closed itself behind him and locked itself again. The Stalking Man looked steadily around him, taking in all that the great open room had to offer, and he smiled slowly. The single far-reaching chamber at the base of Castle Midnight had been fashioned and decorated to resemble a great underwater grotto. A huge swimming pool, deep and wide, lay sprawled out in a great display gleaming white tiles, with a simple walkway surrounding it. Walls and ceiling had been made over to resemble a great stone cavern, the dark false stone painted with endless scenes of whales and octopi, mermaids and undines, and all kinds of water goddesses, laughing and sporting with one another.

The air was heavy with steam, rising from the waters of the swimming pool, which were heated by hidden jets of blazing marsh gas. Condensation ran down the textured walls in endless streams. The air smelled of languorous perfumes, and left the taste of salt on the lips. It was like walking through a sybaritic dream, a personal indulgence, one man’s expensive and very private pleasure. The Stalking Man smiled; he did so love to see men give in to their temptations.

King William was floating on his back in the middle of the swimming pool, his great naked body rising and falling just a little in the embrace of the heated water, his face at peace, his iron grey hair floating around his head. Without his blocky ceremonial robes and his heavy crown to bear him down, he actually looked several years younger. His eyes were half open, staring dreamily up at the faux stone ceiling, painted over with a single great display of naked sea nymphs disporting themselves with one another.

A dozen naked young women, or perhaps more properly girls on the very edge of womanhood, played happily in the water around him, careful to maintain a respectful distance from the floating King. They moved lithely and easily through the steaming water, with a minimum of effort, laughing and giggling and splashing one another. They were perfect and beautiful—nobility’s daughters, rich men’s daughters, all of them volunteered for the King’s pleasure by their ambitious parents.

The Stalking Man stepped carefully forward, to stand at the very edge of the pool, and said the King’s name. Not his title or any of his honorifics, just the name.
William
. The King lifted his head out of the water just enough to see who had addressed him, and then he smiled slowly as he recognised the Stalking Man. Not many men smiled when they saw him. The King rolled slowly over in the water and swam to the far end of the pool with long, powerful strokes. The naked girls swam quickly after him, laughing and crying out like so many birds of paradise. King William grabbed the edge of the pool and hauled himself up and out, along with a great surge of steaming water. He rose majestically to his feet and then just stood there for a moment, organising his thoughts, entirely unself-conscious in his naked state. He nodded once to the Stalking Man, and then strode over to the single chair set out for him. Not sufficiently impressive to be a throne, but still richly fashioned enough to be worthy of a King. He stood before his chair and stretched slowly, his joints making loud complaining noises. Two of the naked girls hurried forward to rub him dry with thick towels. William worked his muscles slowly, enjoying the simple pleasure of being dried, and then dismissed the girls when their hands began to take liberties with his body. He took a towel from one of the girls and slapped her across the backside as she departed, giggling. William wrapped the towel around himself, sat down on his chair, and gestured for the Stalking Man to come and stand before him. The King looked fondly at the dozen naked girls, now sitting together at the edge of the pool, chattering happily.