"Wizards!" snorted Kibhauc, Sreng's lieutenant. "More like 'twas the magic of chieftains' whips, laid across the backs of tribesmen whilst they hauled the stones with leathern ropes."
"Oh, shut thy gob!" said Sreng. "Ye be ever carping and doubting. 'Twere not beyond belief that ye doubt the blessed gods themselves and have gone over to that accursed Triunitarian cult that's spread by missioners from Franconia, so as to weaken our national unity and bring us under Letitia's dominion."
"Find me a wizard who can by magic loft any weight above ten pounds, and I shall be happy to believe. What think ye, Sir Eudoric?"
Eudoric smiled faintly. "My friends, I have traveled through divers lands; and I have found it prudent never to dispute the beliefs of the dwellers therein. How far from Ysness are we?"
"A few hours should see us thither," said Sreng, "if this weather hold, which looks unlikely."
A lowering sky grew darker; thunder rumbled from the black-bottomed clouds. Eudoric said: "There's the largest of your royal tombs so far. Could we not seek to shelter ourselves within?"
Sreng gasped. "Invade King Balan's tomb? Ye must be moonstricken! No man who enters one of these tombs comes out alive."
"What befalls him?"
"How should I know, since none hath returned to tell the tale? Nay, we'll make do with such shelter as yon copse provides."
Sreng led the group into the designated woodland. They were still rigging a lean-to of branches with cloaks and blankets spread out upon them when the rain began. A steady downpour kept them huddled beneath this imperfect shelter for the rest of that day and half the next. They munched black bread, cheese, dried beef, and onions; dozed; cast knucklebones; boasted of heroic feats of carousing and fornication; and listened to Eudoric's tales of travel, while Eudoric practiced his rudimentary Armorian.
VIII – The Pastoral Palace
King Gwennon's palace was a cluster of buildings of logs with the brown bark on, save where it had peeled off in patches. The largest of these structures contained the dining hall and the throne room, as well as the private royal quarters.
Gwennon's throne was a massive armchair of wood stained black. The back and arms were carved in an intricate pattern of interlaced dragons biting one another's tails; their eyes and fangs were picked out against the sable background by gilding. The King himself proved a small, rotund, sleepy-looking, white-bearded oldster.
Eudoric quickly noted a sickly smell pervading the throne room. He soon discovered the source. This was a rack affixed to the wall, having a row of spikes on four of which were mounted human heads, pale and expressionless with half-closed eyes. Eudoric got an impression of being translated back to the earlier, ruder time that followed the fall of the old Napolitanian Empire.
Eudoric also saw whence the heads had been obtained. In addition to the usual chain-mailed swordsmen standing beside and behind the throne, one more guardsman leaned upon a broad-bladed ax. Before him stood a large, wooden, black-painted block with its top hollowed out in a shallow groove. A bucket rested on the floor in front of the block. Forthred whispered:
"Sir Eudoric, I like this place not."
"Nor I; but hold your tongue," muttered Eudoric. Eudoric had been escorted in by the four men-at-arms who had ridden with him from the border. A green-clad usher cried: "Your Majesty, I present Sir Eudoric Dambertson of Arduen, who saith he hath a message for you from King Clothar of Franconia."
The usher motioned Eudoric forward. Eudoric dropped to one knee.
"Rise, Sir Eudoric," wheezed the King. "Here, a simple bow were enough. We set no great store by fancy manners like unto those of decadent Franconia. Nay, we—"
"Nay indeed," interrupted another, rising from a curled-up posture near the throne. A tall slender person, black of hair and pale of face, this man wore a costume of vivid checks of red, yellow, and green, with a horned headdress. Little bells on the ends of the horns tinkled when he moved. "Nay forsooth, good Sir Eudoric! In Armoria, all is feasting and fun.
The jester collapsed in a gale of laughter. The King smiled in a puzzled way; the men-at-arms dutifully smirked. While Eudoric was not without a sense of humor, this faculty was not his outstanding talent.
He smiled thinly, since he could see nothing very amusing in the verse, especially with the headsman standing ready for instant duty.
Eudoric assumed that the man in the fool's regalia was the jester-minister Corentin, who continued: "And now, sir, what is your business?"
Addressing the King, Eudoric went into his well-rehearsed speech about King Clothar's wish to resume amicable relations. At the climax he produced the remaining bottle of wine: "... and in token thereof, His Majesty sends Your Majesty this little gift, in hopes that Your Majesty will reciprocate with a flask of your own delicious perry." . The King leaned eagerly forward, extending a pudgy arm. Before he could grasp the bottle, the jester snatched it, saying:
"Naughty, naughty! Ye know better than to drink from aught that your faithful taster hath not sampled.
Corentin drew the cork and put the bottle to his mouth. He downed several swallows and handed the bottle, now half empty, to his royal master. Eudoric observed these actions with surprise; of the several rulers whom he had known, none would have tolerated such impudence on the part of a subject. Corentin continued:
"Not bad! Count to a hundred, Majesty, ere ye guzzle, to see if your faithful jester be writhing in his death throes or hath already expired. Now, Sir Eudoric! Ere we accept your bona fides, explain why King Clothar should send a lone foreigner to discuss matters of such pith and moment, in lieu of a proper envoy with escort and credentials?"
Cautiously, Eudoric said: "Brulard, the minister, apprehended that such an embassy were likely to rouse the Duke of Dorelia's suspicions and lead to my detention, or worse. Therefore my credentials, now in the custody of your customs officer, say nought of my present mission; merely that I am a harmless gentleman seeking to extend his stagecoach routes and requesting kindly treatment by the powers through whose lands I pass."
"What is a stagecoach?"
Eudoric explained. The jester cocked his head, so that his bells gave a brief tinkle, and studied his visitor. "Dost truly wish to extend this service to Armoria?"
"I must first discover whether an extension to Letitia be possible and profitable; it was for this that I set out from my homeland. I fear the roads betwixt Ysness and Letitia be mostly tracks, wide enough for a horse or mule but not for the wheels of a vehicle. Improvements were costly; so, perchance, this were a project for the future."
Corentin gave a disdainful sniff. "It sounds like an impractical device. I am sure no Armorian gentleman would ride in one unless he were too old or ill to mount his mettlesome steed."
Eudoric changed the subject. "Pray, Sir Jester, tell me of the curious sacrifice of maiden to monster, whereof I've been told. Is this true?"
"Aye; mean ye the witch Yolanda? She came hither feigning a mission like unto yours; but we soon discovered she sought to cast a spell upon His Majesty—" (Corentin glanced at the King, who had finished his bottle and fallen asleep on his throne) "—and thus to seize the rule of Armoria. Clothar no doubt dispatched his sister upon this treasonous quest and not to talk of trade in wine and perry. Therefore are we wary of compacts with King Clothar. What proof canst give that ye be not about to hatch some similar stratagem?" The jester wagged a finger as if beating time, then burst into verse: