The Legend of the King, Page 2

  "One of his smaller ones, yes," Palomides replied. "I'll take you up the back stairs to the council room. If we're challenged, I'll do the talking."

  Dinadan sniffed. "You don't think I talk goodly?"

  "Not even in English, let alone in Arabic. Besides, we may be challenged with weapons, not words."

  "And you don't think I fight goodly?"

  "No."

  "Oh, right."

  Despite Palomides' warning, they met no one. In fact, the entire castle seemed deserted. By the time they entered the bey's official council chambers, they still had not seen a soul. Palomides went to a carved desk and found a roll of parchment. "The original letter was written in Greek. This is a translation into Arabic. I'll have to read it aloud and put it into English for you."

  He cleared his throat, and began: "'Oh, little Phoenix, I write again to you.'"

  "He calls the bey little Phoenix?" Dinadan asked.

  "Yes, all through the letter. Phoenix is the name that Tugril Bey has taken for himself. His crest is a bird rising from the ashes. He did not, however, like being called little Phoenix."

  "I suppose it does come across as a tiny bit odd."

  Palomides raised one eyebrow. "If you think that's odd ... well, let me read on. 'Oh, little Phoenix ... again to you.' Here we are. 'I think of your shapely form and supple skin and how fragile you are as you rise from the bath. You are so small, so delicate.'"

  "What?"

  "'Your lips, so perfect and round, haunt my dreams. Every man wishes to kiss them, but I alone shall smother them with my passion.'"

  "All right, I need you to stop now," Dinadan said.

  "Are you sure? There's much more."

  Dinadan made a nauseated face. "Out of curiosity, does the bey have a shapely form and supple skin?"

  "No. Nor is he small and delicate. He looks like a shaved ox, but fatter. Are you quite certain you've heard enough? In the next part, the emperor says that a strand of little Phoenix's hair, which shines like spun gold, shall be snipped off and kept in a locket."

  "Please, no. I'll do anything you say."

  "But you see why the bey took offense. The emperor describes Tugril Bey as a defenseless girl who will soon be ravished by the empire."

  "Girl," Dinadan repeated slowly. "Hair like spun gold. Oh, Lord, little Phoenix!"

  "What is it?" Palomides asked.

  "You know I said I had been to the emperor's wedding? Well, the child he married, a German princess with golden hair, was named Fenice."

  Palomides stared at him for a long second, then said quietly, "I see. And the translators, not recognizing the name, thought it said Phoenix."

  "Alis sent the wrong letter. He sent the bey a love note he had written to his fifteen-year-old bride."

  For a long moment, Dinadan and Palomides looked blankly at each other. At last Palomides said, "How ... how unfortunate."

  That was enough. A moment later the friends were roaring with laughter. For several minutes they could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Palomides recovered first and said, "We must tell the bey. It will make the emperor look like an utter fool—"

  "Which is true," Dinadan pointed out.

  "But it should avert a war. Follow me."

  They left the council chamber and once again found the corridors and rooms of the palace completely deserted. It took them several minutes to locate an elderly servant who was sewing alone in a room. Palomides asked her a question in Arabic, listened to her reply, then turned grimly to Dinadan. "She says that everyone in the palace is in the center court to watch the executions—some ambassadors from the empire."

  Dinadan lost all desire to laugh. Without another word, Palomides turned and ran down the hall, with Dinadan at his heels. Down one flight of stairs, through a magnificent open hall supported by huge marble pillars, outside and through a portico, and they were in a crowded courtyard, pushing through a throng of courtiers and servants toward the raised platform at the center of the square. Dinadan saw with relief that they were not too late; the ambassadors were still alive, lined up on the platform, blindfolded, and looking very gaunt and very dirty.

  Palomides vaulted lightly onto the platform, drew his sword, and called out a challenge in Arabic. Not to be outdone—or, rather, not to be left alone in the crowd—Dinadan leaped up beside him and called out in English, "That's right! Whatever he said!" He wasn't wearing his sword, having left it on his saddle in the palace stables, but he had slung a short knife at his belt, which he now drew and began cutting free the ambassadors' hands. There was a movement to his left, and from the corner of his eye he saw a soldier leap toward him, sword raised to strike. Dinadan ignored him, relying on Palomides, and a second later, as he'd expected, the attacking soldier stopped in his tracks and fell backwards, clutching his arm. Dinadan went on freeing the ambassadors. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder.

  Palomides nodded briefly, then began speaking to the crowd. Dinadan finished with the ambassadors' hands, helped them with their blindfolds, then stood back to look around. Directly across the courtyard, on a balcony draped with silks and ornately woven hangings, sat a large, nearly spherical man. From his jewel-encrusted turban, Dinadan guessed that this was Tugril Bey, Phoenix of Araby. Palomides finished his speech, and Dinadan said, "Did you tell them about the letter?"

  "Not yet," Palomides replied. "I simply reminded them that the Prophet and the Noble Caliphs of Islam would never execute prisoners without a trial, then told them I had proof that the empire did not intend war. Now we wait to see if the bey wishes to listen."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  Palomides shrugged. "There is no one I would rather die beside than you, my friend."

  Deliberately, the bey heaved himself to his feet and walked to the edge of the balcony. All eyes were on him as the court waited. Glancing around, Dinadan guessed that about a hundred red-clad soldiers were in the courtyard. The bey spoke in a deep, rich voice, and Palomides let out his breath in a sigh of relief. "He'll listen," the moor muttered quickly.

  Producing Emperor Alis's letter, Palomides began his explanation. For a minute there was no sound, but the crowd didn't look convinced. Then Palomides began to read excerpts from the letter, and a low titter began to spread through the courtyard. Dinadan glanced at the imperial diplomats, who were also listening closely, and saw shame reddening their cheeks. In terms of the dignity of the empire, Alis's adolescent gushings were probably difficult to listen to. But the Greeks had sense enough to see that the more foolish Alis looked, the better their chance of living, and they said nothing.

  The laughter spread and grew more pronounced as Palomides read longer and longer excerpts from the letter. At last even the bey began to chuckle, then to laugh openly. He held up one hand, spoke briefly to the crowds, then turned and disappeared. Palomides smiled and looked at Dinadan, saying, "The bey says that there is no honor in making war with a ... what is the English word?"

  "Idiot? Buffoon? Madman? Priceless ass? Thickwit? Blithering beetle-brained booby?"

  "That last one is good."

  "So how does an Arab say blithering beetle-brained booby?"

  "Beginning today, Alis. The bey says that the ambassadors are to be escorted to the border and released, but I hope you—" A horn sounded from a distant part of the castle. "Wait. That's an alarm," Palomides said. "Not of danger, but of news." The crowd in the court grew still, and the bey reappeared on the balcony.

  A moment later, several guards arrived, leading a man on horseback. The man's clothing was that of a courtier from Constantinople, and Dinadan heard old Paulos, beside him, exclaim, "Loukas!"

  The courtier began speaking in slow and halting Arabic. When he was done, he sighed and almost fell from his saddle in exhaustion. Palomides said, "He says that he was sent from the imperial court to bring further news to the bey and to assist the nobles who had already come to seek peace. Emperor Alis is dead, and with no adult heir, the empire has been placed in the care of a regent. I did not catch t
he regent's name—Acor-something."

  "Acoriondes," Dinadan said. "A good friend and a man of honor."

  "To be one is to be the other," Palomides said. "Anyway, the regent Acoriondes sends his deepest honor to the bey and hopes that they will have peace for this generation and for generations yet unborn."

  "Poor Alis," Dinadan mused. "One couldn't help liking the old loony, but his death does seem rather like good news. It makes a tidy ending to this story. Now the ambassadors can return triumphantly, bearing news of peace that they did nothing to achieve."

  "To go back to what I was saying when the messenger arrived," Palomides said, "I hope you do not need to return with them. I have been given quite spacious rooms in the castle, and I would love to show you around Angora."

  Dinadan smiled. "I didn't come on tiresome state business. I came to see you. Of course I'll stay."

  About eight hours later, Dinadan leaned back on his cushioned chair and gazed from Palomides' airy balcony at the sun setting in a peaceful red glow. The towers and domes of Angora loomed black against the sky, but the dark silhouettes were outlined with gleaming gold threads, reflections of the light beyond the blackness. Dinadan took a second experimental sip of the hot bitter drink that Palomides had given him. He would have preferred a cup of wine, but Palomides drank no liquor.

  "Try it with some sugar," Palomides suggested, sitting beside him.

  "Anything," Dinadan muttered. "Look, seriously, what is this stuff?"

  "It's made from roasted African beans, ground up and boiled."

  "Do you ever wonder who first thought of roasting beans, grinding them up and boiling them, and then drinking the water? I mean, it doesn't leap to the mind as a good use for beans. Was it some African village idiot, wandering about mumbling to himself and doing bizarre things? 'Hey, you there! Fool! Stop grinding up those beans! What do you think you're doing?'"

  Palomides took a sip of his own drink. "I rather like it."

  "No, honestly, Palomides. You've had your joke. You don't have to actually drink that stuff. I'll grant that it smells pleasant, but to put it in your mouth!" Palomides only smiled and pushed a bowl of sugar to Dinadan. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Dinadan dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and sipped the hot liquid again. "Better," he admitted.

  The dry air of Angora had cooled quickly as the sun had gone down. Dinadan was bathed and fed and dressed in a loose garment of light cloth, and he could not imagine a more pleasant way to spend an evening than to sit on that balcony with a friend, watching the sunset through the growing mist.

  "You often get fog in the evenings here?" Dinadan asked idly.

  "No," Palomides said. "Never."

  "Then how do you explain—?"

  "Be still, my friend," Palomides said softly. A tautness in his voice made Dinadan turn again, slowly, and look at the mist. It seemed to rise from the street below, but once it had reached the level of their balcony, it rose no higher and instead thickened before their eyes. Then the mist began to swirl and form itself into shapes. At first the misty patterns were unrecognizable, but after several seconds the spheres and lines settled into a consistent shape: a tall, human figure with curling tusks beside his nose. Where the figure's eyes should have been there were only holes, through which the red gleam of the setting sun glowed. Neither Palomides nor Dinadan moved, and after a second the mist monster spoke, in Arabic. Palomides nodded and replied softly.

  "Excuse me," Dinadan said. "Could you speak in English, please?"

  The mist creature turned and gazed at Dinadan in evident surprise. "English?" it repeated. "You are from England? From the land of Arthur?"

  "I am," Dinadan replied with a creditable effort to sound calm. He reminded his pounding heart that he had traveled before to worlds beyond the World of Men and numbered at least one Other Worldly being as a friend, but the hair still prickled on his head, and he had difficulty breathing. "I am of Arthur's Fellowship of the Round Table."

  "Then the stories are true," the monster said softly. "One hardly dared believe that men of such honor could exist. But here you are, proof of that." Dinadan didn't know how to respond and so said nothing. The being continued. "I came here tonight for one purpose, to see these two men whose deeds are already spoken of in hushed voices among the djinn—men who for no gain of their own placed their lives in jeopardy to save others, whom they didn't even like."

  Dinadan smiled ruefully. "If you put it like that, it doesn't seem like such a wise choice, does it? It's probably a good thing we didn't think too hard."

  The djinn replied somberly, "If you could see, as I do, the torn innocents, the shrieking widows, the fields darkening with blood that would have come had you not stopped this war ... if you could see their grief and pain, you would know that your actions were far wiser than your wisdom would have been. These horrors were writ in the book of time, but God has honored your selflessness and has rewritten that tale for another day."

  "Do you mean," Palomides asked in a strained voice, "that we changed the plan of time?"

  "No one does that, O Palomides," the being said. "But you delayed what is yet to be. Evil will still come to this land. The Seljuks and the empire will yet make war. That cannot be changed, any more than this Englishman can change the fate of King Arthur."

  Dinadan's head jerked up. "What fate?"

  "Your Arthur's time is near. His son, Mordred, makes war against him, and—"

  "Mordred? Arthur's son?"

  The djinn ignored Dinadan's interruption, continuing, "And the fellowship begins to decay from within and fall apart." The being looked thoughtfully at Dinadan's stricken face, then said, "I am sorry. If there is even one more man such as you at that court, its loss will be felt in many worlds."

  "I am the least of that fellowship," Dinadan said softly. "And Arthur himself towers above us all." He glanced at Palomides with sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, my friend. I've dreamed for years of finding you again, and now I have to go. I have to return to England."

  Palomides smiled. "Do you imagine that you will travel alone?" He looked back at the being in the mist. "O djinn, can you tell us? Will we help this great king?"

  "That I cannot say. I can tell what would have happened, but not what will. But I give you, in reverence, my blessing as you go." With that, a fresh breeze blew in from the north, and the mist dissipated in a second. The being was gone.

  "In the morning, then?" Palomides said.

  "In the morning," Dinadan replied.

  2. The Mission

  Terence

  Terence poked his head into the Camelot kitchens and surveyed the bustling scene until he identified the round, glowing face of Sophy, the king's chief confectioner. "Sophy, lass!" he called. "Did I just see Sir Griflet walking by with a slice of custard flan? I thought we had an agreement!"

  "Nay," Sophy retorted with a sniff. "You had an agreement with yourself, more like! You agreed with your stomach that you had a right to taste every flan I make—"

  "Only the custard ones!" Terence protested. "And strawberry. But mostly custard."

  "But I see no call for me to care about your fantasies."

  "Never mind that, lass. Is there any custard flan left?"

  Sophy rolled her eyes expressively and opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak, a serving girl stepped gingerly around Terence, muttering shyly, "Excuse me, Sir Terence."

  Sophy froze and her cheeks lost some of their rosy hue. "I'm sorry, Sir Terence. Forgive me. I forgot myself."

  Terence sighed. "It's all right, Sophy. So did I."

  "Of course you may have a piece of flan, sir. On the sideboard, if you please."

  Terence helped himself to a piece of the pastry, but almost reluctantly. Half the fun of eating Sophy's pastries was the banter and good-natured cajolery of wheedling them from her. But that seemed to be one more thing that had changed in his life. Three weeks before, after twenty years of serving as squire to King Arthur's nephew Sir Gawain, Terence had been kni
ghted. The king said that his elevation to the knighthood was a long-overdue acknowledgment of loyalty and service, but Terence had yet to discover any advantages in it. His former peers in the squire's court (and, evidently, the kitchens) now treated him with a stiff, stilted courtesy, but his new peers—the other knights of the Round Table—were so used to thinking of him as a squire that they continued to look through him as if he weren't there. Only his wife, Eileen, Gawain, and Arthur's closest advisors treated him as a real person, but then they had done that when he was a squire, too.

  He found a seat in the sunny courtyard and ate his pastry. It didn't even taste as good as usual, since he hadn't had to work for it. He took a last bite and was brushing crumbs from his sleeve when a large shadow loomed beside him. Terence glanced up at the craggy face of Sir Kai, King Arthur's seneschal and chief counselor.

  "Privy council in two hours," Kai said gruffly.

  Terence nodded. It was unusual for a new knight to be included in the king's inner circle, but as Gawain's squire Terence had been a de facto member of the council for years. "News?" Terence asked. Kai nodded once, then walked away, his firm stride marred by a slight limp from an old wound. Terence stood, stretched, then headed for Gawain's chambers.

  He was walking by the stables when a horse pulled up in front of him with a flurry of hoofbeats. A sharp voice called, "Terence!"

  Looking up, Terence saw Sir Gareth, Gawain's youngest brother. Gareth had not been at Camelot for several months, residing instead at the castle in Cornwall that had become his upon his marriage to the beautiful Lady Lyonesse. "Good afternoon, Sir Gareth," Terence said politely.

  Gareth threw himself from the saddle and tossed his horse's reins to Terence. "See to my horse!"

  Terence hesitated, unsure as to what to do. There was nothing odd in a knight's caring for his own horses—Gawain always did—but he had a feeling that it would be seen as inappropriate for one knight to stable and groom a horse for another.