Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools (18 page)

'The kings and queens of Keladon,' announced Malthus, waving one hand at the portraits, as though he had done this so many times, he didn't even have to think about it. 'From days of antiquity right up to the present. The royal lineage stretches back to the earliest times.'

Sebastian thought that they looked a stern and fearsome bunch, the kind of people you wouldn't like to bump into on a dark night. But Malthus, who seemed to have settled happily into the role of tour guide, just rattled out a line or two about each of them with practised ease.

'That's Balthazar the Baleful,' he said, indicating a fierce-looking man with a spiky grey beard. 'He was the king who instigated the custom of the populace giving half their earnings towards the upkeep of the palace, a practice that still continues today' He gestured around at the grandeur that surrounded them. 'As you can see, we do quite well out of it.'

Now he pointed at a portrait of a short, stooped woman with a fearful squint and an expression that suggested somebody was holding a goblet of sour milk under her nose.

'Queen Wendolyn the Woeful. Her husband died three days after the wedding and she spent the entire fifteen years of her reign in floods of tears. She had to continually change her clothes because they kept shrinking. Hence the nickname.'

They climbed a few more steps and Malthus gestured at a painting of a short, rather fat little man with a red face.

'King Ferdinand the Flatulent; a good and noble ruler whose short reign was somewhat disrupted by an unfortunate habit. No doubt you can guess what that was.'

'Umm . . . flatulence? That's wind, isn't it?'

'Hmm. They say that on a good night he was able to blow out the candles without getting out of bed – if you catch my drift?'

'Right.'

'Unfortunately, one night the gas ignited and blew his bed?chamber to smithereens. A ghastly end to his reign.'

Sebastian tried to look solemn but felt a powerful urge to laugh. 'They . . . they all seem to have nicknames, don't they? How come King Septimus doesn't have one?'

Malthus glanced around quickly and lowered his voice to reply. 'He does,' he murmured. 'But nobody would ever dare use it in his hearing.' He looked around again, and now his voice was little more than a whisper. 'It's Septimus the Slaphead.'

Sebastian frowned. 'Why Slaphead?' he asked.

'Shush! Keep your voice down!' Malthus moved closer. 'It's because he's completely bald.'

'Bald? But—'

'Shush! He suffered from a nervous disorder as a child and all his hair fell out over a period of a few days. It never grew back. That's a wig he wears, and nobody's ever allowed to see him without it.'

'Then how . . . ?'

Malthus was now so close to Sebastian that he was literally whispering in his ear: I accidentally walked in on him once when he wasn't wearing it.' Malthus's face wore an expression of absolute terror at the memory. 'Luckily, I caught sight of him in a mirror before he saw me and I was able to slip back out of the room unnoticed.' Malthus rolled his eyes. 'Believe me, if he'd known, I'd have had an appointment with the executioner's axe.'

'Oh, surely not!'

'I mean it! He can be absolutely ruthless when he puts his mind to it. I sometimes think that Septimus the Severe would be a more appropriate name for him. I've heard that years ago he commissioned a wig-maker to prepare hundreds of wigs, enough to last him three lifetimes – and then he had the man put to death so he couldn't tell anybody else.' Malthus thought for a moment. 'And listen,' he added: 'you didn't hear that from me. If you suggest to anyone that I told you, I will deny it and I can assure you, it will be I who am believed, not some stranger from Jerabim.'

'Oh, have no fear, I won't breathe a word.' Sebastian couldn't help feeling that a gossip like Malthus was not the best man for a king to have as an assistant. They had reached the first-floor landing now. Malthus turned to his right and led Sebastian along a corridor, with rooms opening off at intervals.

'A word of advice,' said Malthus: 'I would go through your store of jokes and assiduously remove anything that has a reference to hair in it. Just in case. You don't want to end up like Hengist the Hirsute, do you?'

Sebastian frowned. 'Who's Hengist . . . ?'

'The Hirsute. He was a nobleman from Berundia. Very hairy fellow. Hair everywhere. Head, shoulders, arms, teeth—'

'Hairy teeth?'

'Well, maybe not the teeth, but you get the picture. Septimus took an instant dislike to him. Put it like this . . .' Once again, Malthus cast a secretive glance around. 'The two of them went out hunting javralats together and only one of them came back.' He waggled his eyebrows at Sebastian. 'Draw your own conclusions.'

Sebastian smiled but found himself going through his mental store of jokes looking for anything that could be problematic. He couldn't think of any jokes he used that mentioned hair or wigs.

'Now,' said Malthus brightly, 'I've selected something really special for you. It's what we call the Slaughter Suite—'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Oh, relax, it's nicer than it sounds,' Malthus assured him. 'The "slaughter" bit just refers to the murals.' He opened a heavy wooden door and Sebastian found himself looking into a large, luxuriously appointed chamber, which would have been delightful were it not for the painting of an extremely bloody battle that occupied the whole of the back wall. It depicted a troop of foot soldiers being trampled into the mud by a battalion of Keladonian cavalry, mounted on vicious-looking armoured equines. Malthus led Sebastian into the room.

'That painting commemorates the magnificent victory of King Septimus over the forces of King Rabnat of Delaton. Over three thousand men hacked to pieces in one charge!'

'Lovely,' said Sebastian weakly. He tried to put the painting out of his mind and went instead to the magnificent four-poster bed in the very centre of the room. He sat on the mattress and bounced up and down a bit and had to admit it was an incredibly comfortable bed; but turning had drawn his gaze to another painting on the far wall, which seemed to depict a series of horrific tortures. Luckless individuals tied to chairs were having their fingernails pulled out, their kneecaps smashed by hammers and their tongues pierced with red-hot metal spikes. 'Oh dear,' he said.

Malthus shrugged. 'Well, I'll admit the decor leaves some?thing to be desired. But it was a toss-up between this and the rooms commemorating the Rodent Infestation and the Plague of Boils.'

'I'm sure it will be . . . very comfortable,' said Sebastian, thinking to himself that he could always use some sheets to conceal the awful pictures. He didn't want to appear ungrateful, and after bedding down on the hard ground for several weeks, anything would be an improvement.

Malthus pulled back some heavy velvet drapes and revealed a tall casement window. 'You've got a lovely view of the palace grounds,' he said encouragingly. 'And next door you've got your very own en-suite cess bucket.'

'That's . . . lovely,' said Sebastian, trying to sound delighted.

Malthus indicated an embroidered cord dangling from the ceiling. 'If you need anything at all, just pull that and a servant will attend you.' He looked around the room with an air of satisfaction. 'I'm sure you'll be most comfortable here, Mr Darke.'

'I'm sure I will too.'

'Is there anything else you need, before I take my leave?'

'Well, there is
one
thing . . . but I'm sure it wouldn't be possible.'

'Oh please, just ask!'

'It's my mother back in Jerabim.'

Malthus frowned. 'You want your mummy?' he asked.

'No! Not exactly. But I'd love to let her know that I've arrived here safely and that I've been employed by King Septimus.'

'No problem!' Malthus indicated a writing desk with a quill pen and some sheets of parchment. 'Just scribble down a note for her and I'll have one of our express riders deliver it. Hmm . . . Jerabim . . .' He thought for a few moments. 'If we get the note off tonight and he rides flat out, it could be there in – oh, five or six days.'

'That soon? Incredible!' Sebastian moved over to the desk and sat down.

'Just ring the bell when you're ready,' concluded Malthus. 'The servant will take it straight down to the post room. I'll see you later,' he added. 'At the performance.'

'Oh, yes. Later . . .'

Sebastian tried not to think about the performance. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, thought for a moment and then wrote a quick note.

Dear Mother,

Have arrived safely in Keladon. Everyone here very welcoming and King Septimus has engaged my services for six gold crowns a month! My first performance is tonight at a grand banquet.

On the way, Max and I met a really nice fellow called Cornelius. He's a captain from Golmira
–
only a little chap but he has the heart of a giant. We also rescued a princess from an attack by Brigands! It turns out she is King Septimus's niece and will be Queen ofKeladon one day. She is really nice and we are great friends. I think you would approve.

We had a bit of a bad time with some lupers on the way, but I am glad to say we are here now and everything is going as planned. I will send money just as soon as I can.

I hope you are well and not too lonely.

Max sends his regards
–
he's staying in the royal stables, where he's no doubt being spoiled rotten!

Your loving son,

Sebastian

Reading the note through, Sebastian couldn't help but remark to himself that it sounded like the ramblings of some deranged idiot, and he was worried that his mother would think that he was simply making it up or, worse still, had gone quite mad. He rolled up the parchment and secured it with a piece of string. He was about to ring the bell to sum?mon the servant when there was a knock at his door.

'Come in,' he said, expecting it to be Malthus with another snippet of gossip to share. But it was Princess Kerin.

The princess stepped into the room. 'Hello!' said Sebastian. He stood up so quickly that his lanky knees caught under the writing desk and nearly over?turned it. He regained his balance and made a clumsy attempt at a bow, but she waved a hand at him as if to say that it wasn't necessary to be so formal.

'I thought I'd drop by and see how you're settling in,' she told him. He saw that she had a small, furry creature sitting on her shoulder.

'What on earth is that?' asked Sebastian.