Gary Gygax - Dangerous Journeys 1 - Anubis Murders (22 page)

Prince Llewyn smiled at the heavy-browed knight. "That is so, for the marshal you will be after this day's work. In fact, serve me well, and I will also award you the honor of a baronacy. Many noble peers of Our Realm will surely question you closely about all that occurred, and you must not betray the slightest portion of the truth of the matter. The office of chief soldier of the realm I will confer immediately upon you, a commission for your valiant slaying of the assassin. Thereafter, as you do your duty aright will come the elevation to the peerage as mine own baron, Murdough."

"I am ready now and will remain steadfast, Royal Prince," the man said, with that conviction a lust for position and power confers on those who live for such achievement.

"Back to your station, then, and attend the king when Lord Tallesian directs you to. Most of all, do not forget that the assassin, Magister Inhetep, is to receive no wound nor any real hindrance in his escape—until you bring him to bay in the library, and you must do your bloody work well then!"

The druid showed Sir Murdough out and saw that the knight went back as instructed; then the chief cleric of Lyonnesse returned to the place where prince and justiciar awaited. "All is now ready," he said with a hint of fear in his voice.

"Go on to your own part, then my stout Arch-druid," the prince said, feigning kindness and trust. "At the striking of the sixth hour, go to the king in his council chamber and whisper your message. He will dismiss the others, of course. Then you will depart to send the 'magister' to his audience with my father."

Tallesian bowed low, his face pale but set in determined lines. When he was gone, the Behon looked at Prince Llewyn. "He is a reed."

"I have put some iron into the core of the reed, but even that metal will soon enough corrode."

"What of the girl?" Myffed asked, not wishing to pursue the subject of Lord Tallesian further at the moment. The druid was too ambitious for his own good. Had he not tried to displace him in the prince's favor, then Myffed might have done his utmost to see that Llewyn remained satisfied with Tallesian's service. As it was, the Behon worked to undermine the chief cleric, and in a few months or a year, there would be a new first priest of the realm where Tallesian had formerly stood—one who owed everything to the justiciar.

"Her? The Shamish doxy is to be kept drugged. In a few days she is to be sent north."

Myffed shuddered. "To Lo—" He cut himself off, as if his involuntary reaction would permit no further words. Then he managed, "I see . . ." with a weak and horrified voice.

Llewyn actually laughed when he saw the ovate's reaction. "She's nothing, a cheap enough price to pay for the aid we've been given and will receive!" The royal prince was telling only a part truth. Rachelle was meaningless to him, of course. Pretty women by the thousands would soon be available to him—not that he lacked for mistresses and conquests as crown prince. The price of his ascension to the throne was as high as could be imagined, only Llewyn had told no one of what it was. The great relic of Lyonnesse, the
Wheel of the Tuatha de Danann,
which was the source of kingly power, would also go north with the captive amazon companion of the dead Egyptian when the time came—soon now, soon! There would be parity in Avillonia, though, and once he managed to gain suzerainty over the other kingdoms, he would use the combined might of the islands to regain the lost artifact— and more! In that the magus, Myffed, would be indispensable. After new power was available, perhaps lesser practitioners would suffice. Heka-benders were always a problem to the Crown, so necessary and yet so dangerous. That would sort itself out in due course. "Go now and prepare the Egyptian for his part. Place him in the secret passage from the library to the cellars, so that when I come from my work he will be ready to confront the guards. When you have finished that task, attend me here, for it will be nigh onto time then."

The Behon murmured assent and departed hastily. Bah! Tallesian and the justiciar both were growing faint-hearted as the hour neared. Not he! Llewyn was firm, knowing that it was the only course possible. Long had he yearned for the throne, but his father was but fifty and still vigorous. The dotard would probably live to a hundred years of age, just to spite Llewyn. How old was Myffed? Well beyond the century mark, certainly. Leave it to Glydel and the ovate to use some magickal energy to live forever! Then, too, it was no secret that his father liked Llewyn but little, preferring his younger brother, Uthar, and even the snot-nosed child, Rhys. That forced him to walk a tightrope to avoid being disinherited and replaced as heir to the crown of Lyonnesse. Much had Llewyn foregone and borne because of his father—and his two brothers. There would be a terrible accident soon after King Glydel was buried and King Llewyn reigned. "King . . . King Llewyn!" The Atheling prince said it aloud, savoring its sound. He touched the ring he wore on his left hand's little finger. It was the token of his pact. On impulse he took hold of it, ready to pull it free and cast it from him. "No, not yet . . ." Llewyn whispered.

An ancient waterclock on an ornate stand in the corner of the chamber dripped time away. The prince stared at it in fascination. Where was that doddering fool, Myffed? But a handful of minutes only had passed since the Behon had departed. Time seeped slowly, slowly. Llewyn willed the water to run as a mountain freshet, to pour out and thus speed the coming moment. The droplets seemed to hang suspended in space for eternity before completing their fall. He filled his heart with hatred and lust and envy and desire, the desire to own all, command all. Thus the crown prince stilled his own doubts and strengthened his resolve. He thought of the other kingdoms, too, of an imperial Lyonnesse.

On the surface it seemed a fair enough bargain. Lyonnesse to gain overlordship of Hyber-nia, the crown of Albion to be placed over that of Caledonia, and Cymru divided between the two greater kingdoms to be ruled as Camelough and Londun decreed. Fair on the surface, but the conniving monarch on the Albish throne would always seek an edge. His realm bordered on Cymru, and his army could easily invade the whole of that land. Then would the balance be gone, and King Dennis virtual ruler of all

Avillonia. Llewyn had pretended to be blind to that possibility, but ever since the conclusion of the pact, he had dwelled on the matter. Possibility had become certainty. Then he had realized how to forestall the matter and turn it to his advantage. The new-crowned monarch of Hybernia would be left co-equal to Llewyn, and the wild warrior bands of that island kingdom sent to ravage the lands of Caledonia. Lyonnesse would in the meantime have all of its forces to deploy in Cymru, so that kingdom would be totally his. When Albion and Hybernia were through fighting in the Caledonian lands, weak and exhausted, then would the Lion Banner move to take them. Albion first, then occupation of Caledonia in order to cause the Hybernian devastation to cease. Isolated, the green isle of Hybernia would then fall like a ripe and juicy pear. Five points and five jewels in the crown, his crown, and like none ever adorning any monarch of Lyonnesse before him.

What of the one who had been so useful in orchestrating this complex scheme? That made Llewyn pause a moment in his gloating thoughts of imperial splendor. The might of Avillonia was the answer. United, the greatest state of the West, much of the rest of Eropa would certainly hasten to make alliance with him—and the price of alliance would be high. Not too high, just enough to make his empire unassailable, and perhaps then would be the time to bring war to Skandia and beyond. Otherwise, assassins were worthy of consideration. How many hundreds could he send? Enough to do the job! Either way, the Behon would be useful, even Tallesian . . . perhaps.

"Prince Llewyn?"

He started, for he had not heard Myffed's entrance while in his reverie. Llewyn raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Well?"

"I have done all you instructed, Highness, and it is now time for the final step."

"Get to it then, man! What are you waiting for?" The magus was beginning his ritual, a casting of change. Should Myffed choose, the prince would be at his mercy, much as any man might be beneath the razor of his personal valet. The Lord Behon was a good vassal, though, Prince Llewyn thought to reassure himself. The magick would be as he had commanded. Then he felt an odd tingling and pains in his body. "What have you done?" he demanded, half pleading, half angry.

"See for yourself, my Lord Prince," Myffed told him.

Prince Llewyn stared into the mirror which stood beside his chair. A hairless face, head bald, eyes green as spring leaves, confronted him there. He stood up in shock, and the perspective was wrong. He was looking down on the room from a place almost a foot higher than it should have been.

"Magister Setne Inhetep now stands ready to speak with King Glydel," the Behon said smoothly. "Here are your Egyptian garments."

= 15 —=

THE MASK OF DEATH

The two men went by hidden route to an out-of-the-way anteroom. Llewyn felt strange, dispossessed. He was sure it was due in part to the magickal alteration of his size and appearance, but he couldn't keep from wondering what part his own fear and anxiety played. He shook his head to clear it. "Are you feeling all right?" the Behon said with near-hysteria in his voice. "Of course I am!" the prince snarled in a strangely alien voice. "Get this charade moving," he muttered to the worried ovate.

The Behon went to an inner door and opened it wide. "This way, Magister Inhetep. His Majesty King Glydel will see you in his council chamber now," and with those words Myffed turned to a pair of guardsmen. "Escort Magister Inhetep to the king. Bring him back here when he is finished, then find me, for I am to personally take this man out of the citadel when his audience is completed." The senior of the two soldiers saluted, and both men fell into place awaiting their charge.

Llewyn stepped out into the broad corridor. He looked at the guards, but neither man seemed interested in him. To their eyes, Llewyn was nothing more than the bald foreigner. "Which way?" he asked one of the guards. His voice was that of the Egyptian, with a trace of accent, too.

"You just foller' us, Worthy Magister," the man said, and he and his comrade marched off, just to either hand and a little ahead of Crown Prince Llewyn in his masquerade as Inhetep. They went for some distance, for the room was removed from the central part of the palace building. But the tall doors of polished walnut, thick valves carved with the armorial bearings of the king of Lyonnesse, came into view almost too soon. "In 'ere's where you'll be agoin', Sir Magistrate. Them fellas'll announce you, an' there'll be 'is Royal Majesty." He was a trifle condescending, treating the supposed foreigner as he would a stupid child of noble rank.

Llewyn swallowed hard. He was now quite nervous indeed, but that was fine, too. Inhetep might be that way, and as far as his father was concerned, the Egyptian
would
be jittery. "Then announce me, lout!" The guards would be left with the worst possible impression of the wizard-priest. "Are all the soldiers of Lyonnesse garrulous old women? Or you an exception?" And he laughed softly as the man flushed and his face hardened. With absolute precision, the two guardsmen came to attention before the sentries on duty, stated their mission and charge, and stood rigid. One of the other pair cracked the door, and a subaltern's head appeared immediately. Hushed words were exchanged, and then the guards before the doors of the council room swung open the portal. The interior guard officer announced Llewyn thus:

"Magister Setne Inhetep of Egypt comes before His Stellar Majesty of Lyonnesse, Glydel, craving audience!"

Llewyn bowed as he had seen Inhetep do, standing just inside the chamber by the double doors, as the guard officer peered intently toward the throne-like chair occupied by the king. Llewyn-in-Magister Inhetep form stood thus for what seemed hours, but it was merely a matter of minutes. King Glydel had been discussing something with emissaries from other governments.

The prince couldn't be certain, for he had never seen the three men closeted with his father, but they were certainly from Avillonia, and one was unquestionably a Hybernian. The others might be Cymric of Caledonian origin—not Al-bish. Odd, Llewyn thought, but not of any consequence now. The king was speaking too softly for him to overhear from this distance, but it was evident that his father was dismissing the three, for the men arose, bowed, and after backing the mandatory three steps away from the monarch, turned and strode toward Llewyn-Inhetep.

They passed without so much as a sidelong glance at him. Excellent. The dweomer was perfect in its transformative effect, and Llewyn was now fully confident that he could face his father without fear of recognition. "Please approach His Majesty now," the officer whispered. The prince went forward in his best imitation of the Egyptian's long-legged stride. The sounds from behind indicated that the subaltern was again taking his attentive station just before the doors, too distant to overhear the words spoken at the table, near enough to spring into action. Not quite, Llewyn thought to himself with a broad inner smile of triumph. I can strike and be done easily before either fool can move! There was an arras to the right of the king's throne. Behind it were two doors. One led to the library, the other gave onto a hallway leading to the private apartments of the royal family. The prince knew this well, but the red-skinned assassin, a stranger from the land ruled by Pharaoh, could not, so it would be an even chance he would take the first door, the one leading to the library. Then he would be trapped in a cul-de-sac by that choice, and slain thereafter due to the error. Who would think of the secret passage? Certainly not the Egyptian, for the vile killer had turned at bay and died—would die soon now. First he must do his work. . . .