It listened intently to the clown’s odd mutterings. Hadn’t the painted fool admitted, just last night, that he was a shaper? And if a shaper, then surely he understood castle speech… though he seemed to be feigning ignorance. If the castle could but communicate the measure of its pain…
Strange conversation indeed, the Imperial House gasped when Pelmen finished. Was it the other power the jester referred to? The castle winced at the notion of this fool shaping it
Isn’t there pain enough already? Obviously, the man is not addressing the Imperial House! But if not, then who? Despite its agony, the House mustered all of its senses and listened closely for any reply the fool might make.
There was none. And yet, when he finished speaking, the one named Fallomar bolted out of the closet, seemingly refreshed and emboldened.
Though the Imperial House had plainly heard him tell his friend at breakfast that he wished to avoid the arrogant Queen at all costs, the castle now watched him stride purposefully toward her very throne room.
Strange business, this, the Imperial House muttered to itself. Then it winced. It longed for a mouth of some kind if only it could burp…
The inside of Kherda’s mouth had the consistency of cotton, and beneath his voluminous cassock his bony knees knocked together. Ligne’s rage was terrible to behold especially when directed at him.
“Look at this!” she shrilled, holding her stained skirt out for inspection. “Ruined!” Her cheeks were as scarlet as the blotch left behind by the spilled wine. Ligne’s eyes nar rowed to cruel slits. “Do you know something about this, Kberda?”
A commotion at the door drowned his strained response, and snagged the Queen’s attention. “What’s going on?” she snapped. Then her pretty eyes widened as the colorfully clothed fool stumbled into the throne room. He stood up and straightened his garments, then glanced casually around as if he owned the place.
“Do you know,” he began without preamble, “one of those guards actually tried to make me believe I couldn’t come into this room? Why, he almost dared me to prove him wrong. So I did.” The fool bowed deeply, then raised his head and winked.
The Queen was aghast. “Nobody comes in here unannounced!”
“That must be me, for I came in without announcement, and I’m certainly a nobody.”
“You’ll be a sorry nobody before you dare such impudence again!” Ligne thundered.
“Oh, but I quite agree! Why, I’m already the sorriest individual imaginable. Is someone eating this?” he asked, as he scooped a grape off a nearby plate and popped it into his mouth. “For who could be sorrier than a fool? Especially, a fool without an audience to amuse—”
“I’ll give you an audience! An audience of warders, who’ll cackle at your cries and smirk at your every scream!”
The painted jester winked at her once again. “Ah, but, my Lady. Why let them have all the fun?” The confident twinkle in his eye proved infectious. Ligne’s smile started with a tiny curling at the corners of her lips, then broadened until her teeth gleamed brightly and her eyes sparkled. She fought to control it.
“You are a presumptuous lout—”
“Obviously.” The fool nodded. “And I presume by the softening of your tone that you’ll not dispose of me immediately?”
“Not immediately. But why take such a chance? Why not let yourself be introduced in the proper manner?”
“My manners have never been proper, my Lady. And as to being introduced it seems this Maythorm fellow has taken a dislike to me.” He leaned forward, cupping his hand to his mouth and whispering loudly, “Confidentially, I think he’s jealous of my face.” That drew a laugh from those close enough to hear, for everyone in court knew the handsome Lord of Entertainments, and certainly this pasty-faced character offered him no challenge. “Besides, that takes such a long time and I couldn’t stand to wait another moment for another glimpse of your radiant beauty.”
Ligne cocked a carefully sculpted eyebrow. “I see for all your foolery, you’re not afraid of flattery.”
“Indeed, my Lady, a fool who cannot flatter flatters himself to think he’ll long remain a fool. To be honest, my mistress ah, my Lady when I beheld you at breakfast, I felt I had found one I could flatter in good faith.”
The lilting of his tongue had hypnotizing power but his mention of breakfast jarred Ligne’s memory, and she looked down again at her soiled dress. “Ah, yes. Kherda and I were just speaking of breakfast.
Weren’t we, Kherda?” Her sharp manner had returned.
The Prime Minister choked. For a moment he had been permitted to hope that this insolent player’s interruption might distract the Queen indefinitely. It wasn’t to be. “Ah… my Lady…” he began.
“What would you do, fool, to a careless, clumsy dolt who cannot even keep his glass upright!” Though she’d addressed the jester, her scorching stare did not leave Kher-da’s face.
“Why, Fd give him a medal and a promotion,” the fool answered.
Ligne whipped around to face him. “What? Why?”
“For choosing such a delicately colored wine to spill! My Lady, the color of that stain truly enhances the tint of your cheeks. You really ought to thank him.”
The Queen put her hands on her hips and stared at Fallomar for a moment, a small frown on her lips. “How long has it been since the court had a jester?” she snapped suddenly. Her question could only have been directed at Kherda, but it caught the Prime Minister off guard. “Well?” she demanded.
Kherda seized the opportunity to deflect attention from himself. “Of course, there’s not been a court fool since you took the throne, my Lady, but I believe there were three during the reign of your predecessor ”
“And where are they now?” Ligne’s eyes didn’t leave Fallomar’s, nor did her frown fade.
“Ah… ah… I believe… why, I hadn’t thought of any of them for years, but… ah… unless they’ve died… all three are still in the dungeon.”
Ligne’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. “Now, fool. Are you certain you wish to continue this game?”
“I’ll play, my Lady, so long as I remain ahead and not beheaded.”
“Then beware your clever tongue, my friend. Let it grow too sharp, and it’ll cut your saucy head off.”
“Ah, but if it grow too dull, what then? Will you make me wear a hood like that stumble tongue in the corner?”
Rosha had been leaning against the wall, taking advantage of this interlude from Ligne’s prodding to daydream of freedom. This comment brought him to life with a roar. He lunged toward the center of the room, jerking his unsuspecting guard off his feet and dragging the poor man across the rug. The fool danced nimbly aside and casually watched the warrior charge past. He turned back to watch Ligne’s smirk grow wider. It revealed the Queen’s thorough enjoyment of this diversion.
“My stumble tongue as you call him, is more prone to take offense than I,” she gloated.
“Perhaps because he’s more offensive?” the clown asked, and Rosha again charged the sound of his voice. Rosha’s guard, prepared this time and reinforced by soldiers from the doorway, pulled the raging captive up short. Rosha jerked at his chains, but they held. He vented his wrath in a shout: “You may d-d-duel with your t-tongue, fool, but give us both d-d-daggers, and we’ll soon s-see who st-st-stands!” His muscles knotted, straining at his bonds. The fool gazed at him lackadaisically.