Sir Apropos Of Nothing Part 9

"True enough," said Justus. He appeared to consider the matter a moment. "Was she a young woman, your mother?"

"Reasonably young, from a chronological point of view."

"What other point of view is there?"

"Well, sir . . . a woman in her profession tends to age a bit faster. Wear and tear and all that."

"Ah." He nodded. "A good point, and an honest one. And because you are honest, you will not be penalized for it in the settlement."

"Penalized? Settlement?" I made no effort to hide my befuddlement. "I . . . do not understand, milord."

He wasn't replying. Instead he was digging deep into a pouch hanging from his belt, and from it he produced a handful of gold dukes. A single duke was worth fifty sovereigns each. He was handling the huge amount casually, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. I felt my breath catch in my throat.

He counted out ten dukes, walked toward me, and pressed them into my hand. "This," he said, "will certainly make up for the years of lost revenue."

I stared at my still open hand, the coins glittering in my palm. It was a considerable amount of money. But I wasn't entirely clear on why it was being handed to me. Furthermore, I was having trouble focusing on anything. My hand seemed very far away, as if it were attached to the wrist of someone else entirely. I felt clammy, but did my best to push through it. "I . . . don't understand."

As if addressing a simpleton, Justus said, very slowly, "This will make up for the money that she will not earn, since she is dead."

"But . . . what of the man who killed her? What of him?"

"What of him?" Justus replied. But the accent was different. I had emphasized the word "him" while he had hit the word "of." My priority was her killer, but Justus seemed nonchalant. Everyone else appeared to share the blase att.i.tude.

"Well . . ." I gestured helplessly, unable to believe that I had to spell out something that should have been so painfully obvious. "He killed her!"

Now it was the burly knight, the one who had been remonstrating me before, who spoke up. "And you've been offered compensation. What more do you want?"

"Justice!" I couldn't help but find it ludicrously ironic that I was echoing the words of Astel, a woman so bereft of morality that she had knocked me unconscious with my mother's ashes and robbed me of my life's savings. But the situation was rapidly spinning out of control, and I found I was willing to say just about anything, including spouting moral indignation that I only marginally bought into, simply so I wouldn't look the fool.

"You have your justice in your hand," said Sir Justus, indicating the coins.

"But . . . but aren't you going to track down her killer? I can describe him! At least, I can describe the marks she likely left on him!"

"That won't be necessary," said Justus.

"But it should be! It . . . I . . ." My mind was at war with itself. Part of me was urging me to pocket the money, which would be more than enough to stake me to a decent lifestyle, at least to start. But I couldn't get past the image of her corpse lying beneath a blanket, the image of a life cut short. The life that had given me my life. Take the money, fool! Take the money and simply get out! Take the money, fool! Take the money and simply get out! My mind made a tremendous amount of sense, and I can only blame temporary insanity, aggravated by my weakened condition, for what happened next. My mind made a tremendous amount of sense, and I can only blame temporary insanity, aggravated by my weakened condition, for what happened next.

"Why aren't you going to go after him! She was a freewoman. Wh.o.r.e or not, she was still a freewoman of Isteria. She was murdered. Why aren't you going to do anything about that?"

"What would you have us do? Go to war with Meander?" There was a ripple of derisive laughter throughout the so-called Hall of Justice.

I wasn't laughing. I wasn't even cracking a smile, although the gold dukes remained in my hand. "If that is what it takes . . . yes. Yes, that it exactly what I would be expecting."

"Listen, young sir," said Sir Justus. "We know his habits, his patterns of movement. The vagabond king never resides in one place for very long. However, if you want to make sure that Meander's stay in your territory is a lengthy one, then the best thing you can do is attack him. Once attacked, he will extend his stay just out of sheer perversity. His madness, however, is a predictable one. Try to make him leave, he will remain. Take no action, and he will depart. That is the official position of His Majesty, King Runcible, and frankly it is one with which I agree."

"But that's insane! You're supposed to defend the people!"

"We are supposed to defend the land and kingdom, and I do not appreciate being lectured, young sir," Justus told me. He was much closer to me, and there was clear anger beginning to build beneath the placid exterior. "Many factors come into consideration besides simple application of brute force. There are other, far more aggressive rulers to worry about. Berserk tribes, warlike monarchs. Plus we have knights out on quests. Manpower is not endless, and we must pick and choose our fights. Meander is simply not worth it."

"You mean my mother isn't worth it," I said flatly, the stench of their hypocrisy suffocating me. "If one of Meander's men had slain a n.o.blewoman, that would be a different story. But my mother, she was a prost.i.tute. She isn't worth your time."

"Her line of work certainly leaves her open to violent advances. Her end was unfortunate, granted, but not completely surprising, given the givens." His impatience was becoming more and more evident. "Engaging Meander in war is a pointless pursuit. Good King Runcible chooses those fights that are in the national interest, and this one simply is not. But your ire is quite evident. Tell you what," and he took another two coins from the pouch and placed them in my hand, then wrapped my fingers around them to indicate that as far as he was concerned, the matter was finalized. "If it is particularly upsetting to you, you can use the extra money I've just given you to hire a freelance mercenary to attend to the situation. An attack by an independent operator wouldn't be construed as reflecting the opinions or att.i.tudes of King Runcible, and so he could act with impunity. That, of course, is up to you."

"But . . . but . . ." I had apparently developed a stammer. My brain was locking up, and I was beginning to feel an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. "But . . . it should be your job!"

"I have done my job," Sir Justus said, and there was no disguising the fact that his good humor and patience was on the verge of totally dissolving. "Take the money and be done with it. There are others waiting for justice. You have permission to take your leave of us. Good day, young sir."

Well, that's that, take the money and go, just go. My brain seemed rather pleased with the way everything had worked out. My brain seemed rather pleased with the way everything had worked out.

But there was another part of me . . . a part that was picturing my mother. Deluded, true, but never anything other than a good intentioned soul who had believed in me and sold her body to try and provide a home for mine. A woman who took her brutalization and transformed the result of that trauma into her reason for living. I thought about the gentle words she had spoken to me, about the endless patience, and the sweetness of her face.

And that other part of me said angrily, In the final a.n.a.lysis, then, is that all she's worth? She believed in you, and you would sell her memory for twelve dukes? A handful of gold coins? Is that the going price for the life of one's mother? Because you know you won't use any of the money to hire someone to track down her murderer. You'll use it for yourself. And these men, at least some of these men treated her like trash when she was alive, and would buy you off now that she's dead. Do you accept this, then? Will you simply take the money . . . and run? In the final a.n.a.lysis, then, is that all she's worth? She believed in you, and you would sell her memory for twelve dukes? A handful of gold coins? Is that the going price for the life of one's mother? Because you know you won't use any of the money to hire someone to track down her murderer. You'll use it for yourself. And these men, at least some of these men treated her like trash when she was alive, and would buy you off now that she's dead. Do you accept this, then? Will you simply take the money . . . and run?

And the answer, all in my head, came quickly and cleanly and clearly: Yes.

The battered and pathetic thing that represented any claim to conscience I might have had turned away from me in disgust. Oddly, I couldn't blame it. I was disgusted myself. Disgusted at my weakness and my lack of resolution, at my refusal to see justice through in the name of the woman who had borne me. And the most disgusting thing of all was . . . I knew it wouldn't last. Oh, at the moment I was filled with self-revulsion. But I was walking out of there with twelve dukes in my pocket. That would buy me plenty of mead in which to drown my sorrows, plenty of women in whose soft loins I could hide, plenty of nights in comfortable, warm beds. Properly managed, I could parlay it into a homestead, or perhaps purchase an already existing business. h.e.l.l, perhaps I could even buy out Stroker and take the place over myself. Wouldn't that bring everything pleasingly full circle.

There would be guilt, yes, but the guilt would fade, erased by comfort and pleasure. And the simple truth was that there was nothing I could do that would truly be of interest to Madelyne. She was dead and gone, and all the justice in the world wouldn't be of any use to her.

For no reason that I could quite discern, that remarkable tapestry with the phoenix on it momentarily caught my attention. I wanted to try and emblazon it in my memory, carry the image with me although I didn't know why.

All of this went through my mind in what must have been only a moment, and then the great heaviness in my chest suddenly started to buck, as if trying to force its way out. There was an awful congestion within my lungs. I tried to fight it, for I did not want to appear weak in front of the a.s.semblage-at least, any weaker than nature had already made me-and in doing so, I tried to bring my right hand up to cover a cough. As I did so, the coins flew from my hand, scattering across the floor with a musical tinkling sound.

There was a gasp from the a.s.semblage, and the face of Sir Justus could have been carved from stone. The burly knight nearby gave even more visible evidence of what appeared to be outrage, his face positively purpling as if he were a swelling pustule about to explode. There was also a giddy peal of nervous laughter, originating from one who had apparently just entered. His garb marked him unmistakably as the court jester. Aside from that one high-pitched giggle, however, he didn't contribute anything else to the moment, which had suddenly become etched with tension.

I had no idea what had just happened, or why they appeared so angry, and then I realized: From their point of view, I had just thrown the money on the floor in what could only be regarded as a gesture of utter contempt.

I was about to explain, to drop to one knee and try to gather the coins up and beat a hasty retreat, and then Sir Justus said, "How dare you, you little wh.o.r.e's son. This . . . this is how you respond to my generosity? I have been patient with you, from pity for your lame state if nothing else, but my patience is done. Out! Now!"

It occurred to me at that moment that I might make a good recruit for King Meander, for my nature was apparently no less perverse than his. I had been ready to leave . . . until Justus ordered me to go. I looked at the clear fury in his face, betrayed by the veins on his temple, which were throbbing.

For once in my life, I felt truly empowered. My head was swimming with the giddiness of the sensation. Here was a knight, a highly ranked knight, surrounded by his fellows, getting himself into an uproar owing to a perceived insult by me, an individual who was so comparatively low on the social scale of Isteria that I might as well not have existed at all. It was as if I, a lowborn lame son of a wh.o.r.e, had been elevated to peer of a knight just by dint of appearing to be an ingrate.

It was a heady, intoxicating experience, the joyous sensation accentuated, no doubt, by the fact that I could barely think straight as I felt illness crawling through me, invading me. Yet in a way, that illness was suddenly my closest friend, for I was doing everything I could to ignore it and, thus, became more focused.

I didn't want to let go of this power. I liked making the knights mad. I wanted to do it because it gave me twisted pleasure to be able to affect them in that way. Here I had been, subject to their sneers and clear att.i.tude of superiority, as if I was s.h.i.+t on their shoes. They weren't sneering now, no they weren't. They were disconcerted, bewildered that such as I would openly hold such as them in contempt. They didn't know, of course, that I-b.a.s.t.a.r.d offspring of one of their number-knew them for the hypocritical cretins that they were. Yes, I was definitely keeping that piece of knowledge to myself, for knowledge was even more power, and I was becoming drunk on that power.

"How dare I? How dare you!" Putting all my strength into holding on to my staff with my right hand, I made a sweeping gesture that encompa.s.sed the rest of the room. "How dare you call yourselves knights and lovers of justice! I spit on your offerings! I spit on you!"

The burly knight was trembling with rage, but he was remaining where he was. I was presupposing that these mighty soldiers wouldn't want to sully themselves attacking a mere lame peasant. He said, "Have you forgotten where you are? Who you are? Who we are? This . . ." and he pointed a shaking finger in the direction of Justus, "is Sir Justus of the High Born! I am Sir Coreolis of the Middle Lands! Who do you think you are, to speak so to us!"

"I?" And my voice seemed to soar, louder and stronger than ever, despite the congestion in my chest that threatened to choke me. "I am Apropos, of nothing, and as far as I am concerned, you can kiss my lame, wh.o.r.e's-son a.s.s!"

I figured this was the point when they would have the guards evict me. It was only when Justus and Coreolis yanked their swords free of their scabbards that I realized I had figured wrong.

"Now," said Justus, very quietly, very dangerously, "you're going to be Apropos, less of nothing. Less an ear, less an arm . . . or maybe I'll just relieve you of that useless leg of yours."

The softness in his voice was enough to make me believe, just for a moment, that he was still giving me a chance to leave. That was another miscalculation on my part, however, for without another word, Sir Justus charged. Although he wielded only a short sword, it made him no less dangerous, and I could see even from where I stood the razor sharpness of the blade. I also noticed, much to my surprise, that Justus was missing two fingers on his right hand.

Coreolis was coming in as well, but from a different angle and a bit slower, clearly more than happy to let Justus have the initial pleasure of carving me to bits. From all through the court, there was a collective roar of approval from the other knights, who were looking forward to seeing their insulted brethren slice and dice the lame peasant upstart.

Naturally, I did the only thing I could under the circ.u.mstances. I ran like h.e.l.l.

At least, that was what I tried to do. But at that moment, everything that was wrong, and had ever been wrong with me, caught up in one shot. My lame right leg gave out, and I wasn't able to recover because a staggering spell of dizziness went through me. I tried to reverse myself, to clutch onto my staff and balance myself that way, but it didn't work. Instead I tumbled to the floor, my staff still in my hands, but otherwise helpless. One would have thought that, considering the fact that I was fallen, Justus would have backed off. But there was bloodl.u.s.t in his eyes, his honor too much at stake, and he didn't slow his charge in the least. He came within a couple of feet of me and, setting himself in a stance, brought his blade up and back like a butcher about to cleave the skull of a hog.

And as my vision blurred, I realized that I was still clutching my staff angled up across my body . . . and that the dragon end of the staff was in proximity to Justus's crotch.

I squeezed the handle . . . and the four-inch blade, rigged up by Tacit, obediently snapped out of the dragon's mouth, positioned no more than a cat's whisker from Justus's most vulnerable area.

The snap sound of the blade was most distinctive, and the area from which it originated caught Justus's attention so that he was wise enough to look down and see his peril. He froze in position. Coreolis, on the other hand, didn't notice his a.s.sociate's jeopardy, and was standing nearby my waist on the other side, apparently ready to hack me in two.

"I wouldn't if I were you," I said with a calm that surprised me more than anyone.

Their view of what was occurring was partly blocked by the positions of the knights' own bodies, but others were starting to draw nearer to the little standoff we were having, and their eyes bulged when they saw the predicament.

"You wouldn't dare," bl.u.s.tered Coreolis, his sword still poised to bisect me, but he didn't sound terribly sure of that.

"Your swords," and from my position on the floor, I calculated the arcs involved, "each have to travel approximately six feet down in order to strike. My blade, on the other hand, has only half an inch to its target, and requires not much of a thrust to strike home. Even a dying jab will suffice. The question presented is . . . can you kill me . . . before the lowborn unmans the highborn."

It was, in retrospect, an impressive speech considering that every word was an effort for me to form. My tongue felt as if it had swollen to twice normal size, and my voice sounded thick to my ears. But obviously I had gotten my point across . . . so to speak.

No one moved. For a moment, I thought we might be there forever.

And then an unfamiliar voice, speaking with an odd mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and confidence, said, "What's all this, then?"

There were gasps, and murmurs of, "Your Majesty!," and everyone in the court went down to one knee, with the exception of Justus, Coreolis, and myself, who remained human statues.

The owner of the voice stepped around, and from there on the floor, I got my first look at King Runcible of Isteria.

"Well, well . . . what have we here?" he asked.

At that moment, the jester leaped forward, spinning about, doing a little jig, and . . . plucking a lyre . . . he sang out . . .

"A rude but daring wh.o.r.e's son has braved the Justice Halls, Offended good Sir Justus, whom he's now got by the-"

I didn't hear the end of the rhyme, because that was when I lost consciousness. But I suspected I could figure it out.

Chapter 9.

It was raining on my face.

At least, that's what it felt like to me. Cold water, moisture sopping into me, and I tried to reach up and brush away whatever was causing it. I was surprised, in a distant sort of way, to discover that I couldn't move my arm. It wasn't restrained; there simply wasn't enough strength in it. It was as if my muscles had shut down from disuse.

I tried to speak, but all I could manage was a slight croak. Everything seemed dark and damp, and then a wet cloth was lifted off my face. I blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in through the window next to my bed. "Wha-?" I said, which was a brilliant thing to say. I'm not even sure the word was recognizable coming from my constricted throat.

There was a woman leaning over me, smiling. I took her to be a maidservant of some sort. She was in her late forties, I thought, wearing a simple blue gown. She looked rather maternal; in a way, she vaguely reminded me of my mother. Her eyes were dark brown, and her silvery hair was tied back in a bun. Her first words weren't addressed to me, but rather to someone I couldn't see, probably standing outside my field of vision. "Send word. Our young rebel is awake." Then her smile widened as she continued to dab at my face with the cloth, as if she were mopping up a stain. "h.e.l.lo," she said. "You gave us quite a scare for a while."

"Scare?" At least the word sounded a bit more intelligible. "Why . . . scare . . . ?"

She dipped the cloth back into a small basin of water, wrung out the excess water, and bathed my face again. I was bare-chested, lying under sheets that were cool and pleasant. "You've been unconscious for three full days. Just keeping water flowing into you has been challenge enough. Fortunately, we have a most excellent mediweaver in our employ. Far more reliable than doctors."

I shuddered slightly. The thought of someone using magic to cure my ills was rather disconcerting for some reason. I actually preferred the methods that Tacit used. In our time in the forest together, Tacit had given me a basic grounding in the sorts of roots and herbs that were helpful at times of illness.

"Three . . . days . . ." I asked, and became aware of just how parched my throat was. She held up a mug of water to my cracked lips. Certainly they'd been trying to keep water going down my throat, but that hadn't stopped me from becoming dried out just the same. I drank deeply and fast, and immediately started to gag, coughing up the water quite violently. The woman didn't seem the least bit put out, even though I hacked a bit of the water up onto her. She simply dabbed at the moisture with a cloth.

"Three days?" I said again.

She nodded. "You had a fever and chills something fierce. The guards said you froze at night and warmed during the day. That would be enough to do damage to even the hardiest of men."

"So I've . . . proven." It was a very weak attempt at humor, but she rewarded it with a game and encouraging smile. I found myself taking an immediate liking to this older wench.

"Am I . . . in a hospital somewhere . . . ?"

She shook her head, the smile never wavering. Either she was a woman of infinite patience or she found me amusing. Or possibly both. "No, you're still in the palace."

"And I'm still alive?" I made no effort to hide my surprise. "I would have thought the knights would have butchered me the moment I was helpless."

For just a moment, there was a flicker of annoyance in her face, but then it pa.s.sed. "Knights," she said crisply, "do not do such things."

"Pardon me for saying so, madam," I said, with a touch of bitterness in my voice, "but I think I'm just a bit more versed in the realm of just what knights will and won't do."

"Indeed." Her eyebrows arched slightly, but she made no comment. Instead she dipped the towel back into the water and reapplied it to my face. "Well . . . I wouldn't dream of contradicting someone so worldly."

"Worldly." I laughed softly. "That, madam, I am not. I've seen very little of the world, really. And what I have seen, I've been on the bottom looking up."

"It must hurt your neck, craning it so."

I drew myself up a bit, propping my torso up with my elbows. "So . . . what is your name?"

"Beatrice. Bea, to my close friends and intimates. And you, I understand, are Apropos of Nothing."

"My name is known. I'm not entirely sure whether that's a good thing or not."

"As with all things, Apropos, it has both its positives and negatives. Life is a double-edged sword."

"That's why I try to live it to the hilt."

She laughed at that, rather heartily. It was not exactly a ladylike laugh. Then again, that wasn't all that surprising, since a serving wench didn't require the att.i.tudes of a lady.

Her next words, however, completely startled me. "The king wishes to make you an offer."

I looked at her askance. "Does he now."