The two mages strode toward each other until they were close enough to spit upon one another, were either undignified enough (they were not) to do so.
The Black Man raised his arms.
Vergil drew his sword. The sword with no name.
It was no easy thing for a sword to avoid acquisition of a name. The least trait or incident would suffice. Dost whistle when swung in the air? Deathsminstrel. Born in the forges of Caliburnus? Excalibum. Left it leaning on the outside of the tavern on the sunniest day of the year and came out not more than three drinks later to find it all a-rust? Stormbringer.
Vergil had overseen the forging of the blade himself, the work done by a blacksmith mute from birth, and when one of the apprentices had cried out on its emergence from the cooling bath (it was a stock sales technique; let the mark leave happy being a byword of greatmost antiquity), “Ah! ’Tis a very—” “wonder” he was about to say, or “marvel,” and there ’twould’ve been, Wonderblade or Wizard’s Marvelment, when the magus’s fist in the hollow of his stomach had cut short the thought.
“Thank you,” the mage had said. “I’ll take it.”
It was important that this be a sword without a name, for if Vergil were to occasionally find himself wearing such a thing during his researches (in a situation, say, where his professional and pseudoregal duties coincided), why then, it were wisest that the blade were alchemically neutral. There was magical power in names. And in this sword, none.
Vergil swung up the explicitly un-magical sword. The Black Man flung his arms out to either side, fingers wriggling like snakes, to turn his magics against him. For what use had a magus of a sword? Well, a hundred actually. All of them powerfully magical. None of which involved a straightforward stab into his enemy’s chest.
Blood gushed.
“Oh,” said the Black Man.
He fell forward.
Dead.
In the stunned silence, Vergil turned to Count Mar, who stood suddenly exposed by the fall of his champion. The old count did not return his look with any great enthusiasm. “You,” said the magus, sternly. “Lord Mar. What earthly reason do you have for this unprovoked attack upon me?”
“I… well… of course…” The Count flapped a hand toward his Countess, his wife, Oria. “The… ah… the insult… to the honor… of… my wife?” he ended weakly.
“For jealousy?” Oria said. “You tried to kill King Vergil for me?” She ran forward and flung her arms about the neck of Emericho, Count Mar, Master of Ceremonies to the Court, her husband. “Oh, ’Rico!” she squealed. “You darling man!” And to his absolute befuddlement, kissed him then and there.
She was a girl who knew which side her bed was buttered on, was Oria.
So there it was: Hero triumphant, villain dead in the dust, and now the clinch: the two lovers reunited. And if one were a trifle old for the role, well. One can’t have everything. To a man and woman, the bystanders cheered, whistled, stamped, and threw their caps in the air. They might not know exactly what had just happened. But they knew a good story when they saw it.
Count Mar then set his wife, Oria, Countess Mar, to one side and, with the astonishing assurance of the Old Aristocracy, took Vergil’s arm and led him aside. “This is a touch embarrassing, old boy, but I’m certain you in your professional capacity as a wizard and negromancer will of course… well, to put it bluntly, one finds oneself in need of a yerb or potion, something that will—as the saying goes—put some lead in the old stylus.
“For a friend, you understand,” he added quickly. “Not for one’s self.”
A King Without Country had many responsibilities, as many, indeed, as the Emperor in his wisdom might choose to heap upon his shoulders. Withal, he could not levy taxes, nor raise troops. Neither could he set policy nor declare war. He had not the powers of High nor Low justice, could practice neither infangthief upon criminal villeins, nor outfangthief upon suspicious-looking vagabonds, could not condemn a felon, nor imprison a traitor, nor e’en so much as fine a citizen, be the rascal never so annoying to endure. He could not aspire to the office of Emperor.
What advantage then, when all is said and done, hath a King?
Ans.: A King may forgive.
“I have,” Vergil admitted, “just the thing.”
Of a night not many months after, Vergil met with a certain Lady, incognito, at a small farmhouse in the Libertiex of Etruscany. The Lady was accompanied by her aged crone of a mother and a ragged varlet with emblems of the Vavaseur of Idalia whom Vergil did not recognize, for he had never before laid eyes upon the man. Vergil was accompanied only by his unshakable Chinese wizard. “So she’s tupped-up, is she?” said the Lady, when he was done his tale, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes.
“Most gracious Imperial Maj—” he began.
“Call me Aunt Pet,” she said. “They all does.”
“Aunt Pet. Yes, she is. Pregnant.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ye’re not gawna try nor conwince me it were Mar’s doing? I’se not so provincial as all that! I don’t care how much lead thee puts in an eighty-year-old stylus, t’ain’t gwinter write no such nonsense.”
“No, Maj—Aunt Pet. The child is the work of your husband, the Emperor.”
She wheezed with laughter, and slapped her thigh thunderously. “Well, b’ain’t that just like him! As ready to rut as a goat! I remember a time when—”
Patiently, Vergil endured a ribald tale the single repetition of which in the Eternal City would be worth his head and the pole upon which it would be stuck. Standards were different out here in the country, of course. Then he said:
“Aunt Pet, I would there were peace between us.”
“Why, lor bless you, why shouldn’t there be?”
“You convinced Count Mar to hire the Black Man to kill me. I thought you might have had some reason.”
Aunt Pet blushed.
“Mummsy,” she said gently, “why don’t you go with that nice Chinee-man, the Babylonian or whatever. Have him show you how to fix up someat magical from his little boxy-thingie, eh?”
Then, when the reverenced hag had dragged young Ma off to the kitchen, she lowered her voice confidentially.
“It’s me mother. The Imperatrix-Mum. Her.” She gestured with a nod of her head. “She enjoys a spot of court intrigue, so we keeps a few spies, traitors, assassins, and so on, on the payroll. Just so she can keep a hand in—it means so much to her, old dear!” She lowered her voice. “They none of them does any real spyin’. Just sits in Rome on the expense account, boozin an whorin an guzzlin an makin up lies to send home.” Then, raising her voice, “All save for one wha’s too dim to understand that when it’s raining soup, ye holds out yer skirt.”
She glared at the varlet who shivered and hunkered further down into himself.
To break the tension, Vergil said, “One more question. Just who is the Vavaseur of Idalia?”
She clucked her tongue. “Why, bless you, sweets, I is! It’s a hobby I has. I collects titles. Big ones, little ones. I has one of each by now, I reckon. I don’t fancy it costs dear Festus nothing.”
Which pretty much wound up everything Vergil had come to ask. It would be impolite, though, to leave so abruptly. Also dangerous. The lady was still the Empress, and it was night, and there were (doubtless) wolves. So Vergil stayed, and talked, and listened. It was surprisingly pleasant to deal solely with inconsequalia for a change. Even a King (even One Without Country) can enjoy a touch of gossip.