“No, my son!” The ghost held up his hands in supplication. “I would not have you seek revenge! That path leads to Hell!”
Boncorro stared up at him for a minute, eyes narrowed. Then he said, “Your rebuke is wise-I shall not revenge!” But he squared his shoulders, raising his chin with an air of authority his father had never shown. “But I am the king, as you never were, and I must render justice, as you never did! Tell me, for the sake of that justice-who murdered my grandfather? Who murdered you?”
“How could he know who slew your grandfather?” Rebozo cried, trembling. “He was dead!”
“Dead, but in Heaven-and though the Saints may not know everything, they know a great deal more than the living. Is it not true, my father? Do you not know, and that without a shadow of doubt, who killed Grandfather?”
“I do,” Casudo’s ghost admitted. “It was the same man who murdered me. He slew me when I proved to be incorruptible, not knowing that a week longer would have seen my fall from grace; he killed King Maledicto when he found him confessing his sins, then instantly became the loudest mourner of all.”
“Who was it, then?” Boncorro’s voice was steel, and it was no longer a son speaking to a father, but one young man speaking to another. “Alas!” the ghost cried. “It was the single man most trusted by your grandfather and yourself-”
“You lie, foul phantom!” Rebozo screamed, leveling his staff. “It was the Lord Chancellor Rebozo!” the ghost cried.
Chapter 26
Rebozo screamed a cursing verse in the archaic language, and the staff spat green fire. “Die, foul phantom! Get thee hence!”
Prince Casudo only folded his arms across his breast, closing his eyes and tilting his head back in prayer as the flames wrapped about him. But King Boncorro glared at the chancellor, his lips moving, unheard in the midst of Rebozo’s maniacal screams of hatred-and a giant snake coiled up from the floor to wrap Rebozo in its coils. Rebozo stared at the flat wedge head, only a foot from his face, and screamed in horror before the snake’s coils choked off his breath. His staff fell clattering to the floor, and the green fire stopped, showing Prince Casudo’s form still there, shining more brightly than ever. King Boncorro rose from his throne, eyes narrowed under lowering brows, and stalked toward the chancellor, slipping a stiletto from his belt. “No, your Majesty!” Rebozo rasped with the last shreds of breath. “This phantom is not real! It is only a phantasm made by the scholar Arouetto!”
“How great a fool do you think me?” King Boncorro glanced at the snake. “Loosen enough to give him a taste of breath! He shall die by my knife, not your coils.” Then, to Rebozo again, ‘He is no wizard, but only a scholar-and has nothing to gain!“
“He has the Knowledge! If he knows the way, he can do the deed! And he has everything to gain, for he is the true and legitimate heir to the throne of Latruria.”
Boncorro froze. Then he whipped about, glaring at Arouetto. “Is this true?”
“Be sure it is true.” Sir Guy stepped forward, his hand on his sword, just a step from interposing himself between Arouetto and the young king. “He is the last descendant of the last Caesar.”
“But I do not wish to rule!” Arouetto protested. “I have no taste for court life and less for intrigue! I abdicate, here and now, where all may hear me, in favor of King Boncorro, for his reign may cure the ills of Latruria! I wish only to be left to my books in peace!”
“I have heard it,” Sir Guy said, “and I will abide by it. He is no longer the heir. The throne is yours.”
Boncorro scowled down at them for a very long minute. Then he said, “I thank you, scholar. I shall keep the throne-but you may not have your life of peace, for I require your services and your advice. Rebozo has betrayed me three times over. He shall die for that. You shall be my new chancellor.” Then he turned, raising his knife to execute the sentence. “No, my son!” cried the ghost. “Do not send him to Hell! Let him confess his sins, let him repent!”
Boncorro hesitated, the dagger poised. “It is foolish to loose a snake to strike at your heel, my father.”
“Do not loose him! Find him a priest this very day, let him confess, then behead him and burn his body! But do not burden your soul with his damnation!”
“This is not prudent,” Boncorro said.
“The way of virtue is frequently imprudent, but always wise! Do this for me, my son-though I know I do not deserve it of you!”
“You deserve it ten times over.” Boncorro sheathed his knife. “Your desertion does not outweigh ten years of love and care of a very small child. He shall have his chance for Heaven.” He gestured, shouting a quick verse, and the snake dwindled, turning into iron, and clanking hard about Rebozo’s wrists and ankles as fetters and chains. But Rebozo had been given the respite he had needed to recover. With one quick motion he stooped and caught up his staff, crying, “Now, all my old henchmen! Strike, or know your doom! Smite this princeling, or die at the stake!” Then he shouted an unintelligible phrase, snapping the staff out toward Boncorro-and the snake reappeared, coiling up about the king. Sir Guy shouted, “Havoc!” and sprang up on the dais, his sword whirling toward the serpent’s head. Boncorro saw him and ignored the reptile, gesturing and shouting his own rhyme… But his shout was answered by fifty others, as courtiers stepped forward, slipping wands from their sleeves and chanting verses in the archaic language-even as a fiery monster appeared between Rebozo and the king, blasting Boncorro with its fire as the tailor leaped astride the creature his magic had called. But flame met a thousand glinting points that rushed toward Rebozo, and caught the monster instead. It screamed with rage, thrashing in pain, but leaped at the king… And a score of other monsters, lamias, gorgons, and nightmares of horn and sting and teeth, screamed in delight and converged on Matt and his friends, while another score rushed toward Boncorro. Saul spread his hands, shouting,
Matt shouted out,
Half of the monsters slowed, halted, and stood frozen; the others shrank down, their shrieks of dismay rising up the scale as cradles appeared behind them. They fell backward and in; iron grids clashed shut over the tops of the cradles, holding them in. But other sorcerers were shouting other verses, and fires sprang up all about them. The ceiling rained knives and swords, the floor sprouted vipers and scorpions. Matt and Saul spun about and about, trying to quell one horror after another, yanking out verses in a very eclectic blend of classic poetry and TV commercials. Cans of insecticide appeared about them, sprinkling death on the vermin; fire extinguishers sprang into existence to combat the flames; giant steel umbrellas sent the cutlery cascading. But they were on the defensive, scarcely managing to keep up; the sorcerers definitely had the initiative.
On the dais, Boncorro was whirling, shouting verses in old tongues and new, sweat running down his face as he countered one nightmare form after another. He made his floor turn from mire back into solid stone, and set up dozens of shields and swords to parry and fence those weapons that Rebozo brought into existence. Meanwhile, Sir Guy was manfully battering at Rebozo’s steed, taking its blasts of fire on a shield that magically dispersed the creature’s flames instead of conducting them. Sir Guy was singed and cut in three places on his face, but the monster was bleeding flame from a dozen, screaming in rage and frustration, for the knight danced about it, never in one place long enough to bite-and, worse, he was singing!