Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Mifurdania,
Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle
“And here, highly esteemed spectators, here at my left at the end, we have another legitimate descendant of the unique, incomparable and, for countless decades, never bettered, Incredible Rodario!” announced the man in opulent white attire standing on the same stage that normally saw service for executions. If you looked carefully you could still see the odd tuft of hair stuck in dried blood in the notches on the block. Nobody minded.
Or rather, nobody was allowed to mind.
There was not an inch of space in the square in front of the theater known as the New Curiosum. The covered tribune for the nobles and rich merchants or other privileged burghers was also filled to capacity.
Only the tribune’s first row, reserved for selected notables, was still empty. Such dignitaries seldom if ever came to lighthearted events like this, preferring public beheadings, and the punishments and humiliation ordeals usually meted out here.
A pretty young woman sat in the second row. She had bright tawny orange eyes and, covered by a flimsy veil, beautiful black hair reaching down to her waist. She wore a mantle of black wolf fur wrapped round her and held a cup of mulled wine.
Round the edges of the square, stalls were selling various comestibles ranging from hot sausages and sliced pork to waffles and sweet chestnuts in cream. If anyone was cold they could grab a warm beer or a hot mug of wine, served with honey or spiced to taste. White clouds of steam rose from the many stoves in the market booths and there was music and song coming from the inn.
The young woman smiled as she inhaled all these smells. At last there was a reason to be cheerful, rare enough in these times of occupation by Lohasbrand and his henchmen.
“Is there anything else you’d like, Princess Coira?” asked her companion, who was of an age to have been perhaps a brother. Under his open brown fur coat he wore leather armor, and a short sword hung at his side. His hair was hidden by a flat padded woolen cap that gave him a harmless appearance. That was the intention.
“Yes, I’d like you not to use that title,” she hissed, flashing her eyes in reproach. “You know what they’ll do to you if they hear you addressing me like that, Loytan.”
Her companion scanned the empty front bench. “There’s nobody here to take me to task for speaking the truth,” he answered quietly but firmly. “You are the princess and your mother would be queen of Weyurn but for the accursed Dragon…”
Coira placed her hand over his mouth. “Be quiet! You’re risking your life, talking like that! They have eyes and ears everywhere!”
In her mind she could see her mother, imprisoned in her own palace, the Ring of Shame around her neck. Every hour of the orbit she was watched, humiliated and robbed of her authority. If the Dragon decided she should die, his servants would pull the ring tight to strangle her slowly until she suffocated. The princess sighed. “Look at the stage and enjoy what the Incredible Rodario’s descendants have to offer us this time, when they choose their best competitor.”
Loytan smiled obediently and turned toward the stage.
The master of ceremonies was pointing his cane to the end of the line. There were no less than eleven men and six women this cycle.
They were all dressed in showy and extravagantly tailored garments. The fabrics chosen were, one and all, scintillating and amazingly brightly colored. And yet the clothes had been selected in each case-coats, dresses, hats and boots-expressly to make each competitor stand out from the others.
The only one who didn’t conform to type was the fellow at the end of the line.
He was the only one the tailor had provided with togs that didn’t fit. Or perhaps he was standing so poorly that everything he wore seemed to crease and sag in the wrong places.
As appropriate for a descendant of the Incredible Rodario, he had brown hair, worn to his shoulders, and a good bone structure, but his cheeks were rather plump and this detracted from the promise of aristocratic features. The goatee beard, a distinctive mark of the original Incredible Rodario, founder of whole dynasties of renowned actors in many regions of Girdlegard, was disappointingly wispy and badly groomed.
“He calls himself-and I admit it’s one of the more predictable choices-Rodario the Seventh! Applause, if you will!” The master of ceremonies raised his arms to encourage the audience, but the clapping was sporadic and died away quickly.
“By all the gods,” said Loytan, amused. “What a miserable figure he makes in the midst of all those peacocks! He won’t even get a consolation prize.”
“I think it’s… quite clever,” Coira said in defense. She felt some sympathy for this particular descendant of Rodario. He bore a certain tragic charm. “He’s… different.”
“He’s definitely different.” Loytan laughed out loud.” In my opinion he’ll be the first of the last again. Shall we have a bet, Princess?” He smiled at her happily, then something caught his eye just past her and his expression lost its merriment.
A broad shadow fell over them; Coira swirled round in fear.
Behind them, four of the Lohasbrander henchmen had entered the tribune unnoticed and were making their way to the first row. They had heavy armor hung with discs of metal under their cloaks and their helmets were in the form of a dragon with folded wings. Each wore an amulet on a silver chain-a dark-green dragon scale, the sign of undisputed power in Weyurn. Thus they outranked all except for their master.
Coira leaned forward searching the crowd in the square until she located the orcs. They belonged to the Lohasbranders and were their devoted servants. There they were, hanging out in one of the side streets, stuffing their faces. Because of the cold, the meat they were eating was steaming. Coira didn’t want to know whether it was freshly stewed or just very fresh.
The man at the front grinned at Loytan. He was fat and muscular at the same time; his broad face sported a light blond beard. “Did I just hear you say something you’d better have left unsaid? You know the law, Count Loytan of Loytansberg. It holds even for nobility like yourself. Or especially for nobility like yourself.” He gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat at the young man. “But I’ll overlook it for now. I don’t want to spoil the atmosphere.” He thumped down the steps to take his place straight in front, so that his helmet spoiled Loytan’s view of the stage. “I recommend that you are no longer there when I get up to go. If you’re still there I shall be implementing the orders of Master Lohasbrand.” His comrades laughed as they took their seats.
“Here comes the first round, ladies and gentlemen. You love this part of the contest,” announced the man in white. “It’s the quick-fire slander session that starts here in Mifurdania, where the Incredible Rodario had his theater for so long.” He surveyed the audience, hands on hips. “I can see from quite a few of your faces that your great-grannies used to enjoy going to the Curiosum, but going backstage, of course, I mean.”
The crowd loved it.
Coira restrained Loytan’s hand, which had wandered to the sword at his belt. “Don’t,” she whispered urgently.
He was shaking with anger. “But…”
“You might get him, but the orcs will finish off your entire family. The Dragon will punish everyone, not just the individual-have you forgotten that?” Coira took her handkerchief to remove the globule of green spit from Loytan’s face, but he turned aside and wiped it on his own sleeve.
“One day nothing will save him from me,” Loytan growled.
The woman released her hold. The danger was over for the moment. “Leave rebellion to others,” she said quietly. “To those who don’t have families.”