The Red King (32 page)

“It happens, don’t be alarmed. You looked too
long on the horizon. Try not to focus on the passing land,” Ortega
said, holding him steady. He did not seem surprised by Andrew’s
state; trembling, pale, weak and distressed.

It took Andrew a moment to regain his
control, and it was flimsy, at best. He cleared his throat, wiped
his eyes, and said softly, “I would like to return to my cabin,
please.”

“It will not help. Fresh air is best,” Ortega
told him.

Ah, he thinks I’m sick
, Andrew
thought.
Let him, it will help
.

Ortega took his arm and draped it around his
neck. “If you insist, but you’ll be worse off for it.”

“I only need to rest.”

“It is clear to me that you need more than
rest. You are obviously distressed, and I can guess why,” Ortega
said.

Andrew gritted his teeth. “Can you?”

“You’re terrified, as well you should be. You
need to end the folly you intend and not give yourself to Maarten.”
Ortega deposited him on his bunk.

Andrew covered his face with his hands,
rubbing at his burning eyes. “You are mistaken, it isn’t fear I
feel.” He looked at Ortega then and said, “Thank you for your
assistance, Captain.”

Ortega replied with a polite bow. “I’ll leave
you to rest. Join me for supper again; you’ll be sent for at the
proper time.”

Alone, Andrew went to the basin again and
splashed his face. “I can do this. I will…” he said to himself, his
voice breaking, choking on the words. He clenched his hands in his
hair and pulled, hard enough to make his head throb.

The final lesson; focus. Concentrate on what
you mean to do. Refuse to acknowledge any and all distractions.
Focus. Focus. Focus…

At last he felt the flood of emotions recede,
not fully, but enough for him to take a deep but still shaky
breath. The face Andrew saw in the mirror this time did not have
that hard look. It was defeated, all thoughts of happiness and
peace ripped away and left with nothing but the most meager shell
of humanity. Try as he might, he could not recall the mask of
indifference. His eyes continued to fill with tears and his mouth
was drawn down in a grimace.

Andrew wondered how he could face Maarten if
he could not even stem the flow of his tears. He desperately needed
this control, needed it as a weapon and a shield. As he stood
shaking, watching his expression crumple and struggle to reform, he
clenched his fists. The pain in his palm flared, causing him to
gasp, and clearing his mind for an instant. In that moment, his
face relaxed and his eyes cleared. “Ah,” he whispered to his
reflection and sent his fingers straight into the bandaged
wound.

That was better. His vision sharpened. His
face smoothed over.

“Like the martyrs, enduring the worst
tortures without a cry. I see now, how that is done,” Andrew said,
testing the steadiness of his voice. Then he laughed, at himself,
his audacity. He stared hard at his face again, nodding
satisfactorily. “You are no martyr.”

Then he took himself back to bed, keeping his
mind occupied with questions for Ortega, and away from the fact
that the seat of his joy, his ultimate happiness, was fading from
view with every passing moment. The ships movements lulled him to
sleep, but his dreams were ghastly; full of bright sunlight, warm
hands, and green eyes.

When Andrew was called to supper, he was back
in control of himself. He’d slept, fitfully, but enough to chase
the weight of fatigue from his limbs. He had wiped himself from
head to foot with a soft cloth and a newly filled basin of cool
water. Dressed in the borrowed finery he felt himself distant and
protected, at least his spirit was, and was prepared to engage in
‘polite conversation’ as he ate.

Ortega greeted him with a smile. “Ah! You
were right, you look better for the rest.” He waved Andrew to his
chair.

“Despite recent developments I have not spent
much time on ships. I’m still growing accustomed to the rocking,”
Andrew said. He sat and shook his napkin out over his lap.

Ortega smiled. “Indeed.” He watched Andrew
drink and spoke again. “Be sure to curb your intake of wine, or
tomorrow will be as uncomfortable as today.”

Andrew shook his head, licking his lips
clean. “It has passed. There will be no more sickness. In fact, I’m
quite hungry. May I begin?”

“Of course,” Ortega answered, taking up his
stiletto to serve himself, as well.

Andrew felt the man’s eyes on him,
constantly. It did not stop him from treating himself to a healthy
portion of roasted pork and honeyed yams and eating them with great
gusto. “What will our polite conversation be about this evening?”
he asked, not looking towards his host.

“For a priest and a captive, you carry
yourself well. One would almost believe you a young nobleman,”
Ortega commented.

“I was never a priest, or a monk. I was
raised by holy men to be astute and observant. They are gifts I do
not take for granted,” Andrew replied, reaching for his goblet.

“But you were a captive,” Ortega said, his
voice half-teasing.

Andrew met his gaze over the rim of his cup.
“Yes. I was.”

“And yet, you wish to place yourself back in
captivity. I confess that it puzzles me,” Ortega said, frowning
now. “You have the sharpest of minds, a pleasing demeanor and a
face that would tempt angels; why would you put yourself in the
hands of…”

“A sadistic madman?” Andrew supplied.

Ortega nodded.

“I have my reasons,” Andrew answered, driving
his fingertips into his palm.

“You would be a brilliant
protégé
.
Work for me, with me, and the world can be yours,” Ortega told
him.

Andrew smiled, sadly, and stabbed the back of
his hand with his fork beneath the table. “But I never wanted the
world and there is nothing in it that makes me want to stay.”

Ortega was silent for a long time after that.
He sat watching Andrew eat, his elbows resting on the table and
hands folded beneath his chin. Andrew ignored him, finishing his
plate and shoving it away. After finishing his wine, Andrew sat
back, threw one leg over the arm of the chair, and waited.

The silence stretched; Ortega simply stared
as if expecting Andrew to do…something. Andrew refused to become
irritable, or incensed, by the man’s strange behavior. He sat
calmly, growing drowsy, and closed his eyes. His head fell forward,
jarring him awake though he did not know when he fell asleep.

Ortega was no longer across the table but
seated next to him, twirling his stiletto in his fingers. When he
noticed Andrew was looking at him he sat forward, eyes bright and
curious. “You mean to let Maarten kill you, is that it? It is a
strange form of suicide, to be sure, but I don’t think that it is
your only objective.” He lifted Andrew’s chin. “Tell me what your
plans are, Andrew.”

Andrew shook his head, pulling away from
Ortega’s hand. “No, stop it,” he said, his words slurred, sluggish.
His head fell forward again and he only wished to sleep, but Ortega
pushed him back up with a hand on his chest.

“Why do you go to Maarten?” Ortega persisted,
gently.

Andrew felt the stiletto poke into his neck,
just enough to hold his attention. “I’m tired now,” he said, eyes
drooping. He could barely see; everything was blurry and
distorted.

“Tell me your plans and you may rest. Come
on, now,” Ortega persisted, taking his chin more firmly and
shaking.

Andrew’s eyes were barely open. He parted his
lips to speak; his voice was so low he could hardly hear himself.
“I plan…to kill him. I want to kill the bastard.”

“Well, now, that is a surprise…” the words
faded into darkness.

Andrew could recall those words when next he
opened his eyes. He was not in his bunk but a larger one, framed
elaborately and draped with red velvet. He pushed up onto an elbow,
head swimming and sickness threatening. He groaned and fell back,
curling up on his side to hold his stomach.

“I owe you an apology.”

Andrew cracked one eye open. Ortega was
sitting next to him with a cup in his hand. Andrew closed his eyes
again and moaned. “Go away.”

His head was lifted and the cup pressed to
his lips. “Drink it.” He let his lips part and cool, sweet cider
flowed into his mouth. Ortega leaned closer as he spoke. “It’s the
laudanum that has made you sick. I may have given you too much and
for that I’m sorry.”

“Why on earth would you give me laudanum?”
Andrew asked, raising his voice far too much and clutching at his
head as the sound echoed in his skull.

“Most people feel pleasant, relaxed. I didn’t
expect you to react so poorly Here, drink some more,” Ortega said,
his voice very soft. He tipped the cup, letting Andrew sip at
it.

“But why?” Andrew whispered.

Ortega sighed. “Information. No one would
willingly hand themselves over to Maarten Jan de Worrt, especially
if they were familiar with his particular…tastes. I wanted to know
what you were planning, if it would affect me and how.” The man set
the cup on the floor and leaned forward on his elbows, putting his
face close to Andrew’s. “You and I have a common goal, Andrew. We
could do this together and benefit healthily from it. I meant what
I said about a
protégé
. You’re the cleverest creature I’ve
ever met and I can only dream of what your mind could
conceive.”

“Killing Maarten is my only purpose. It is
the only reason I am still alive,” Andrew whispered, looking into
Ortega’s eyes.

They stayed there for a moment. Ortega did
not look away, but he nodded, tilted his head a bit, and said, “I
see that you mean it. I will not try to dissuade you, not now. I
offer my assistance.” He shushed away Andrew’s argument and
retrieved the cup. “Drink this and go back to sleep. We’ll discuss
this when you are awake again.”

Andrew did as he was told.

Andrew pulled the cloak around him a little
tighter. It was warm, if a bit elaborate; fur-lined wool, hooded
and falling to his ankles, even he could appreciate the rich
crimson of its color and the way it draped and moved around him. It
did not keep out the chill completely, though he was willing to
admit that the damp, leaky
slott
was not the only reason he
trembled. He cast a glance towards Ortega, standing beside him,
looking calm and elegant in his black velvet. It was a stark
contrast to the anger he’d seen in the man the previous
evening.

“You are infuriating! How will you best this
man if you are dead? The most powerful revenge would be to live, to
sit at the head of his fortunes. You would live a life of luxury if
you would let yourself!”

Watching Ortega as he paced, Andrew was
struck with a realization. “They’ve always remained nameless,
faceless, chattel to be traded and sold. I am the only one you’ve
ever spoken to, aren’t I?”

Ortega sent him a scathing look. “Have faith
that I see the error in that.”

“The damage is done, though, isn’t it?”
Andrew asked, a small smile curving his lips.

Now the man ignored him, even though he’d
personally seen to Andrew’s appearance. The blue velvet was taken
away and replaced with white; white on white, with silver braided
frogs and elaborate stitching. There were no slashes, no blousing,
just trim velvet and silk. There was even a silk wrap on his still
healing hand. Andrew wanted to clench it now, but the preceding
days had done their work well, and he resisted.

There were still moments of weakness, left
over from the fever that had wracked his body. Andrew had torn the
stitches in his palm and, before the surgeon could catch it,
infection had taken hold. He remembered very little, only snatches
of conversations above him, dreams skirting the edge of his
awareness, and the flash of hot and cold as the fever undulated
through him. He had lingered in delirium for three days and for
that he was grateful. It was three less days to remember, three
less days to face before it could all be over.

Only one thing remained with him from those
fever dreams; a request…no, a command, to hold on. Hold on, as long
as he could. Andrew did not know what it meant, but the memory of
it had caused his heart to flutter. Now, it was what he kept as his
focus, instead of the pain he’d been causing himself. It helped him
find the strength to stand in this decrepit hall and wait…wait to
be called into Maarten Jan de Worrt’s rooms.

Ortega looked at him now. “This is your last
chance, Andrew. I could introduce you as my apprentice, or my
partner, and spare you…” his words trailed off.

“I cannot, but,” Andrew paused, took a
breath, “thank you. You had no reason to help me, to care for my
wounds or my illness. Nor dress me in such finery. I am deeply
grateful for your assistance, Ortega.”

“Alejandro,” Ortega replied, softly. “My name
is Alejandro.”

Andrew smiled. “Your name means defender of
man; if only that were so.”

Ortega was pale and silent after that.

A servant came for them, then; long of limb
and extremely thin, with long brown hair past his shoulders and a
strangely soft and expressionless face. He beckoned them to him. “I
will take you to Maarten now. Leave your weapons, Ortega, and you,
boy.”

Ortega removed his sword and dagger, laying
them on the table beside them. Andrew opened the cape. “I have
none.”

Which was a lie; hidden in the wrapping of
his hand was the vial of hemlock, now ground into a fine
powder.

They were led down a dark hall, lit only
intermittently with torches. The medieval supports were old,
showing signs of rot and decay, and Andrew had to wonder how this
remaining portion of the keep still held. Only the central
structure remained, no tower, walls, or outbuildings were left. The
great room, probably the bastion of the old fort, had bits of
crumbling stone at the edges, as if they’d fallen and been merely
swept aside. He’d seen two doorways on the edge of collapse, one
leading to what smelled like the kitchen and another that emitted a
strange, medicinal smell. Across from those doors was the large
fireplace, the only source of heat and light in the room, leaving
shadows in the corners that seemed to breathe with freezing,
swirling sentience. It was an oppressive place, to be sure, but so
close to its own demise that Andrew felt one swift kick would bring
the whole place down around them.