Woes and Hose Read online

  Dick gloated on the inside. This is how you win loyalty. A true example of leadership. He swatted another attempt at a dab with a vinegar-doused linen. “I am fine!”

  More people were coming to the courtyard and it was becoming decidedly busy. Through the haze of orange light and dancing shadows, he saw his chubby wife make an appearance, bundled in expensive sable, her servants in tow. She was a child, but she did have the right upbringing, Dick noted. She knew it was important for her to see and be seen.

  “Deek!” She hobbled through, small and persistent, until she was standing very close to him, stinking of too much expensive perfume. “Is…are you hurt, Deek?”

  Dick waited with his answer, made sure he had sufficient audience. Finally, these peasants were looking at him and not at their bastard celebrity. “Just scratches. It is my cousin who needs help.”

  Amadea spun about, almost too abruptly. “Kiefer!” Then there was a flurry of words in Valedian that he did not understand. The princess and the entourage quickly moved toward the prone bastard, who seemed to be savoring all the attention and pity from the healers. They had removed his trousers, and no less than three pairs of hands were washing crusted blood off his thighs.

  Dick could not recall when it was the last time he had women fondle his thighs.

  Amadea knelt in the hard mud, seemingly ignorant of the filth on her dress. Her ladies-in-waiting emulated her gallant gesture, but they did it with less conviction. Possibly because they didn’t have as many spare dresses.

  “I am a little cold,” Kief said in a low voice.

  “Did you got wound…ed protecting the prince?” Amadea chirped.

  What! Dick silently fumed. But he had to remain serene and princely.

  “I wish I could claim that honor, My Lady, but it was Dick protecting all of us,” the bastard wisely replied. “He was very brave with the pistols, and he slew three of the—ah!”

  “Enough talking. Take him inside,” the chief healer ordered. “That gash needs stitching.”

  Dietrich watched as they carried his cousin into the keep. Amadea followed, as it was expected of her to comfort wounded soldiers and members of the royal family. He remained outside, once more feeling offended that he wasn’t the center of all attention. “I’m thirsty. Arnie, get me some wine!”

  Arnie nodded and scurried away.

  “Your Royal Highness?”

  Dick turned around wearily. The formidable presence of Castellan Enduria Jumpfer was limned in the torch light. “My Lady.”

  “Is there anything, anything at all, you may need?” she asked with cold, efficient prudence.

  I would very much like to get laid. “Hot food and spiced wine.”

  “The cooks have baked eel pie with chestnuts and carrots. There’s also gammon and pepper.”

  “I will also require a bath and fresh clothes. My hose is ruined. And I have a blister on my palm from the reins, so I will need some salve.”

  “Mint and goose fat, Your Royal Highness.”

  If Crispin were around, Dick wouldn’t even have to ask, but Arnie was rather useless. Still, Dick tried to be magnanimous. After all, that was expected of a true leader. It had only been an eightday since Crispin had departed for Monrich, but it felt like an eternity. He would give the boy a while longer to prove his worth.

  Fatigue was sinking in. The deadly battle, the long hours of riding, the chill, insufficient food and drink, and all the excitement from the ordeal were taking their toll on his soul. He was quickly growing weary of the noise, the chatter, the idle gossip, and the smoky smell of animals and men. As soon as Arnie returned, he would go back to his chambers and sleep for several days. Then, think of a way to punish the Koravs.

  “Prince Dietrich.”

  This time, the voice belonged to someone he dreaded. “Master Udo?”

  The ugly son of a whore was blocking his way into the warm hall of the castle. His face was all creases of sourness and displeasure, his eyes agleam with contempt. “Gert told me of your deeds. Well done.” Without waiting for any sort of reply, he was gone, walking away.

  Dick blinked. Had the man just given him praise?

  Perhaps all that stupid hardship was paying off?

  Or maybe Dick was just really good?

  It had to be the latter.

  He was ready to usurp Old Fart!

  Feeling buoyant without daring to admit it, he headed back toward his chambers. He hesitated once or twice, trying to figure out which semi-dark corridor to follow. Ostfort was a complicated, sprawling beast, and Dick still wasn’t very comfortable with its layout.

  He realized he had forgotten to wait for Arnie. Never mind, there would be fresh food and drinks in his chambers.

  Dick stepped out of the round tower into the inner ward, crossed it, and started climbing toward the royal tower. The passage smelled of mold and cat piss. An older woman was on her knees, scrubbing the splotched limestone with a wire brush, trying to get rid of a green stain.

  The sounds of the commotion faded away behind the thick walls of the fort. Deep inside its confines, one would never guess there was trouble near the east gate. The midnight silence was oddly comforting. It did not feel oppressive. It felt serene.

  Dick listened to his own labored breath and the shuffle of his filthy boots, wondering what had prompted Voytech’s ugly soul-twin to sputter compliments at him. Master Udo hated him. Which only meant Dick’s bravery was beyond comparison. He easily ranked among the heroes of old.

  The click of heels doubled, and Dick saw a servant coming his way from the opposite end of a short corridor, dutifully keeping close to the wall so the nobleman would have as much space as possible. For a moment, the servant raised his eyes in quiet greeting.

  That…

  Dick had spent all his life around castle help. He knew what kind of stares and glances they dared stab at him, from terrified to mildly intimidated to brazen. But never proud. Never self-important.

  He spun in time to block the overhead stab. The man was wielding a large, curved knife, made for stabbing through the ribcage and into the heart.

  Dietrich wasn’t sure if he’d put his arm up instinctively or because of his long, arduous training under Master Udo. All he knew there was sharp pain on his forearm as he stopped the attacker from ending his life. The blade hovered less than a thumb above his skin.

  A high-pitched wail filled the hallway. Probably his.

  Even as agony, panic and indignation warmed his neck and cheeks, Dick realized what was happening.

  An assassination attempt!

  The attacker was surprised, and it took him a moment to recover. Enough for Dietrich to push away and barrel down the corridor, muddy boots slipping on flagstones. He stopped at the far end and reached for his pistols.

  The holsters were empty. He had forgotten to reload them after Challe.

  The assassin wasted no time. He rushed over, committed to finishing the job. There would be no surprise this time around. The man was short and slim, but he looked agile and highly skilled with that vicious knife.

  Dick knew he stood no chance if he let the assassin approach him within the striking range. He looked for a weapon, any weapon, and the only thing that he grasped was an old tapestry. He yanked it free of its hooks and tossed it at the attacker. The man fumbled and lost balance. The knife arced wide.

  Dietrich was running again, climbing steps two at a time, his heart hammering in his gullet. He felt light, fluttery, his arms and legs weak and fragile. He slammed into a wall, bounced, rushed down another corridor. He needed a weapon, preferably a bow or a pistol of some kind.

  The assassin followed, silent, determined. There was no point shouting or cursing. It would be a waste of breath, and the thick walls swallowed noise all too well.

  Dick tripped on a step, skinned his shins, and saved his own life. The third blow flew high, and the assassin crashed on top of him, hitting the moldy wall with his own face. The cry wasn’t Dick’s this time.


  Dietrich squirmed around, trying to wrestle the attacker and overpower him with sheer size and weight. The man was above him now, bleeding, his face a red mask. The knife had snapped in two, but a fragment remained attached to the handle in the man’s grip, still long enough to viciously hack through skin and flesh.

  Dick gripped the man’s wrists, and they danced, shaking, hissing. Dick’s knees jabbed furiously into the attacker’s thighs and groin, trying to push him off and down the stairwell. The killer was growling now, getting agitated. The look of cool deadliness was gone, replaced with determination and frustration.

  Dick’s mind was firing random thoughts, almost distracting him. He tried to focus on the bloody face in front of him.

  Blinding white light. The attacker had somehow hit him in the eye. The pain scattered his thoughts. For a moment, he floated above the scene as it pulsed brilliant purple and nightmare white. He saw two men grappling, fighting to the death, and it took him a moment to understand who they were.

  It’s me! And some bastard!

  His strength was ebbing. He was a prince, not a butcher. He wasn’t raised to fight like a commoner. The duel would end soon, and he was going to lose. He would never become king. Old Fart would be laughing himself drunk above Dietrich’s grave stone, etching an inscription with his ale-smelling piss.

  Here lies Fat Prince Dietrich. He just wasn’t good enough.

  No!

  Fury lent him a fresh dose of determination, and he managed to push the other man off him, if only for a rushed breath of air. But that was enough to see the snapped shard of the knife lying within his reach. The idea of gripping that sharp steel in his bare hand made him queasy, but less than the notion of having Mina rule the Monrich throne.

  Howling to counter the sensation of pain, he let go off the assassin’s weak hand, quickly grabbed the broken blade and stabbed wildly. The curved slice sank just below the man’s ear. Dick knew his own fingers were lacerated, but he pushed as deep as he could, and then pressed with the heel of his palm until the shard had sunk all the way in and couldn’t be retrieved.

  Above him, the assassin went still, dropping the knife on Dick’s chest. Then, he slumped, and his head hit Dick square in the forehead.

  Sweet Saint, Dick moaned in the recesses of his frightened mind, struggling to stay conscious. The pain was monumental. He couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t hear anything. The world had become a blanket of silver, echoing with a single tone of numbness. His head was going to explode.

  It just wasn’t worth enduring that agony.

  Gracefully, like the prince he was, Dick let the dreamworld engulf him.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Wrong Color

  “Why is it that women find pain irresistible?”

  —LUKASZ, A HOGORIAN BARD, 2ND CENTURY

  31st Day of the Month of Budding

  Dietrich opened his eyes. His brain lagged behind and for a blissful moment, he was unaware of his agony. Then, it came rushing in, wrapped in the vivid detail of the day before. He had woken up when they lifted the dead assassin off him, and then drifted between lurid dreams and reality as they carried him to a safe place under the watchful guard of a hundred panicky soldiers. Then, they cleansed his face of blood, some of it his, some the killer’s—mostly the latter—rubbed honey and smelly poultices into his cheeks and reset his nose, which seemed to have been broken in the fight.

  His right hand was in worse shape and had to be bound in linen and something that smelled like mustard. This meant he would not be able to train with the sword for a long while, and that pleased him immensely. But it also meant he wouldn’t be able to tickle his leek or fire a pistol.

  That displeased him immensely.

  With twice the attention and thrice the fussing they had spared his cousin, the castle help had ferried him to his chamber, where he had spent most of yesterday sleeping, recovering from his injuries, his muscles stiff and hurting miserably. The near-death stress felt like a horse kick to his berries. Every fiber in his body burned.

  The price of being a hero, he thought as pain flooded him. Deep down, beneath the layers of sticky clothes and iron-hard battering, he was feeling rather satisfied with himself. He had fought in a dire battle and defeated the brigands. He had defended himself against a deadly assassin. If he wasn’t meant to be king, no one was.

  “Arnie!” he called. Why did he sound so feeble, so raspy?

  The servant stood up from where he was lurking inside the chamber and rubbed his face. “Your Highness?”

  Sensing activity, Mutt woke up, jumped off its quilt in the corner by the door, and padded over, all curls and wags. It tried leaping up onto the bed, but it was too high for him, so it stayed there, panting eagerly.

  “Come closer, I don’t want to shout.”

  The boy approached, his expression sour. Was it the sight of Dick’s face? Should he ask for a mirror?

  “Get me some wine and honey.”

  “Lady Enduria said you must not drink wine until your wounds heal, Your Highness.”

  Dick tried to frown; it was difficult with his eye shut, his nose swollen and clogged, and his cheek itching from the gut thread sown through his skin. “Do you wish to get into trouble, lad?”

  The sound of swallowing was loud. “No, Your Highness.”

  “Then get me some wine and honey, now.”

  “I cannot do that, Your Highness.”

  “You said you don’t want trouble. I’m warning you, Arnie.”

  “I did, Your Highness. This is why I’m not going to disobey Lady Enduria.”

  Dick tried to lift himself off the bed. He could do it, but he just didn’t feel like getting up just yet. Spending a day tucked in soft silk and goose down was actually quite pleasant. If not for his injuries, he would be rather comfortable.

  Suddenly, he smelled something. Even with his nostrils full of dried blood, he could discern a distinct pungent scent. Old, rotten cheese. “What is that awful stench? Did Mutt shit on the carpet again?”

  Another swallow. “No, he did not. Apologies, Your Highness.”

  Dear Saint, Crispin was never that crude! “Did you fart, Arnie?”

  “No, Your Highness. I guess it’s my feet.”

  Dick propped himself up this time, ignoring the protest in his shoulders and arms. The boy looked disheveled, dirty, and he was wearing a pair of tattered woolen socks, trying to bury his oversized pink toes into the shaggy hairs of the carpet. “What?”

  “When you got hurt, Your Highness, I never got a chance to clean myself. I stayed here with you, in case you needed me. It’s…in my family. They called my father Badleg Meinard.”

  “Arnie?”

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “You are excused for the day. I order you to scrub yourself and bathe yourself as much as you need. You may use my soaps and powders if you wish, and get some lye for your feet. I shall manage on my own. And take Mutt with you. Go.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness!” The boy bent down, trying to lift the evasive, fidgety mongrel. The dog barked once in defiance before he let himself be carried out.

  Once Arnie left, Dick gingerly lowered himself back onto the bed. He wanted to immerse himself in lament and self-pity, but no, a real king would not do that. He wasn’t too badly hurt. If he ignored his cut palm, the bruises weren’t any worse than a decent brawl in a tavern. His head swam, his body was tense, but within an eightday, he would probably forget all about it.

  He lifted his right arm and stared at the bundle of linen binding his fingers. He tried to move each finger, just a little bit. Yes, he could feel each digit. Good. He probably wasn’t going to lose any dexterity. He was an excellent shot with his left too, but it was always better to be able to fire two pistols at the same time.

  Quenching his lewdness would probably be his biggest challenge now.

  Dear Saint, he was thirsty and hungry. He remembered the four ropes hanging above his bed. He would summon the kitchen staff, and they wo
uld pamper him and feed him. Women loved injured men.

  He pulled.

  He waited.

  The door to the chambers opened, and Castellan Enduria Jumpfer stepped in.

  She closed the door and latched it.

  She waited.

  Dietrich grunted in lieu of a good frown. “Lady Enduria?”

  “You summoned me, Your Royal Highness?”

  “I did?” He must have pulled the wrong rope, wrong color! He tried to turn around, to get a better a look at the position of the four cords, but Enduria moved into the chamber, and he felt compelled to watch her. He was ever so slightly wary of her. She had a dominating presence.

  And she might be another assassin.

  “How do you feel, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Surprisingly good,” he mumbled. He did not want to portray himself as weak.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Good?” Dick asked.

  The castellan edged closer, and to his horror, sat on the edge of his bed.

  Dick squirmed. Slowly, he reached up with his healthy hand, hoping he would yank the red cord this time.

  Almost casually, Enduria leaned over and flicked the rope away, so it caught behind the bed post, and he could not grab it without getting up. Which was extremely difficult with her massive breasts brushing against his nose. Strangely, no pain registered. Only lurid fascination.

  Dick was the one doing the swallowing sounds this time.

  Where’s Arnie? Oh shit…

  “You show great promise, Warden,” Enduria lectured in her icy, emotionless tone. “I find your enthusiasm endearing. Irresistible.” She was removing bone pins from her hair, letting her curls down. Then, her hands reached for his breeches.

  “What are you doing?” Dick whispered, terrified.

  “I want to inspect your wounds,” Enduria said.

  Dick hissed as she peeled the breeches over his shins. He had forgotten about those.

  The castellan patted his left leg none too gently, her fingers touching the scabs below his knees. He winced. She was watching for his reaction, and for a fleeting instant, he imagined she had cracked a dry smile. Her hand was now on his thigh, inspecting the nick from the sword. “Your injuries are healing well. I am glad that none of them are threatening. Or such that they would impede in your ability to function in any way, Your Royal Highness.”