Once In a Blue Moon (39 page)

“We all lost friends, and family, in the border skirmishes. That’s why it’s time to put an end to it.”

Lord Leverett sneered at him. “Peace, at any price? Never! If we give up, then it was all for nothing. All our brave young men died for nothing!” He glared about him. “Not all of us want this Peace! Or this marriage! To some spoilt foreign bitch, unworthy of our Prince!”

Richard stood up and let fly with the apple in his hand. It shot through the air and hit Lord Leverett so hard on the forehead it knocked him right off his feet. He fell backwards, unconscious before he hit the floor. Guards rushed forward to pick him up and carry him outside. There was a certain amount of polite applause, and a lot of laughter. The Sombre Warrior bowed to Prince Richard, who bowed back, and then both of them sat down again.

“Nicely done, son,” said King Rufus. “Shut the man up without hurting him or giving his allies anything they could use to take offense. Now, Seneschal, where’s my dessert?”

•   •   •

S
ir Jasper was still walking back and forth in the Castle, wandering in and out of walls and rooms as the mood took him, mostly invisible, so as not to bother anyone. There was hardly anyone about, because of the banquet. Sir Jasper knew that. And so many of the rooms were empty, abandoned. Nothing but dust and shadows. The ghost felt strangely upset at finding Forest Castle so empty, so seemingly down on its luck. Unwanted, and uncared for. Just like him.

He finally found his way to the Castle Armoury, and stood for a while before the huge closed doors. Something about the two massive slabs of beaten metal, covered with centuries’ worth of engraved glyphs and runes and magical protections, seemed to tug at his memory. He had been here before; he knew it. Somewhen . . . The whole place
meant
something to him. It meant so much that he half wanted to just turn away and leave, rather than find out why; but he raised his ectoplasm to the sticking point and walked straight forward, ghosting through the massive metal doors. All kinds of security spells flared and sputtered harmlessly on the air, unable to get a hold on him.

Sir Jasper stopped just inside the doors, and looked hopefully around. An almost overbearingly large hall stretched away into the distance, its far boundaries lost in the gloom beyond the limited foxfire lighting. Swords and axes, maces and morningstars, in all shapes and sizes and designs, filled ancient weapons racks on both walls, hung in proud display. Many of them in simple leather and metal scabbards, perfectly preserved by the still air and subtle protective magics laid down generations before. Famous blades with honourable and even legendary names, each in its own special niche, with plaques beneath them to commemorate some great battle or triumph, alongside weapons of war so powerful or brutal that no one had dared use them for years. And none of them meant anything to Sir Jasper. He sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped, just a little. He’d been so sure he would find some answers here.

“If I was a knight, surely I would have been here, wouldn’t I?” he said, his ghostly voice not echoing at all. He was used to talking to himself. “Was I a warrior when I was alive? And if so, which King did I serve? Which King did I let down so badly? What did I do, or leave undone, that I’m not allowed to rest? What terrible crime did I commit to earn a punishment like this?”

He broke off, as he heard footsteps approaching. He hesitated, ready to turn and leave, but something held him in place as a dim figure came pottering forward out of the gloom. Tall and elongated, and of indeterminate age, wearing formal clothes that were well out of date and had almost certainly never been fashionable, the stick-thin figure beamed happily at Sir Jasper as he trotted forward to join him. He wore huge owl-like spectacles perched on a hawkish nose, dominating a pinched face under an entirely unconvincing curly wig. The striking figure finally came to a halt before Sir Jasper and clasped his bony hands together over his sunken chest. His smile was bright, and his eyes were brighter.

“Oh, hello!” he said. “Come for a nice look round, have you? That’s nice. Always glad to see a new face. Don’t get many visitors these days, which is probably just as well. They will keep trying to touch things . . . Of course, the Forest’s real weapons depository, the actual armour for the actual armoury, isn’t here anymore. No, that’s held somewhere else, under control of Parliament. They’ve got all the shiny new stuff. This is just a museum.” He laughed happily. “That’s what they think! Hello, I’m Bertram Pettydew, Forest Castle Armourer. Who are you, and why can I see through you?”

“I’m Sir Jasper, the ghost. I’m almost sure I know this place, from before.”

“Really?” said Bertram. “Then you must have the full guided tour! You must, you must! See if we can’t jog a few ectoplasmic grey cells, hmm? Follow me, and stick close to the light, there’s a good dead person. The shadows can be treacherous.”

He led the way deeper into the Armoury, with Sir Jasper sticking close to his side. The ghost got the feeling that this Armoury could still be dangerous, if it felt like it. And he wasn’t at all sure that being dead would be any protection against some of the things he could sense lurking in the shadows.

“The Armoury is almost forgotten, these days,” said Bertram again, peering happily about him, already in full lecture mode. “A last repository for all the weapons that changed history, down through the many years. And a few others that might have, if anyone had dared use them.” He paused to drop Sir Jasper a conspiratorial wink. “Parliament only thinks they’ve got the good stuff! Hah! That’s what I say. Hah! The day they came looking, all the really good stuff hid itself till they were gone. The politicians and the like just took away all the rubbish I’ve been trying to get rid of for years. Laugh? I thought I’d never breathe again . . . The King knows the true state of affairs, of course. When he remembers. And Prince Richard, of course. Fine young fellow. Mind out for the mantraps.”

He escorted Sir Jasper from one legendary display to another, putting names to old and terrible weapons that had done good service for the Land in their day, and giving the ghost a quick précis of wars and battles long gone. He seemed quite comfortable around Sir Jasper, who thought Bertram was just glad to have someone to talk to and show off his beloved exhibits to. They stopped before an empty setting, and Sir Jasper immediately backed away a few steps. There was something about the empty space that set all his nerves on edge. Bertram Pettydew nodded solemnly.

“Oh yes . . . This is where the Infernal Devices used to stand. The most evil, cruel, and powerful blades this Armoury has ever known. Don’t ask me when they were originally fashioned, or why; such knowledge is long gone, and probably best forgotten.”

“Rockbreaker,” Sir Jasper said slowly. “Flarebright. Wulfsbane.” His whispered words seem to echo on, hanging in the still air.

“Yes! Fancy you knowing that! Not many remember those names these days. A lot of the old songs and stories have been terribly whitewashed, cleaned up and sanitised, for modern ears. Don’t want anything that might upset people . . . Idiots! History is supposed to be upsetting, to make sure you don’t do it again! But no one listens to me.” He looked almost benevolently on the empty space. “All gone now, of course. Lost or destroyed, in the final days of the Demon War. We still get reports of their turning up, here and there . . . but it always turns out to be a false alarm. Just as well, really. We do still have some very useful items here, though—terribly powerful and quite upsetting if you think what they might do in the wrong hands. Or even the right ones . . . I suppose Parliament should be told we still have them. I’m almost certain I’ll get around to telling them. One day. When they need to know.”

They moved on, Bertram happily pointing out axes of mass destruction, and spears that could fly for miles to take out one target among hundreds, and even a set of arrows that were supposed to shoot through Time and take out an enemy in the past or the future. And then he stopped suddenly, so Sir Jasper stopped with him. Bertram Pettydew heaved a sigh.

“Is there anything sadder than an Armoury that’s no longer useful, no longer needed?”

“Well, that’s Peace, isn’t it?” said the ghost vaguely.

“Oh, of course! Of course!” said Bertram. “But I do miss a good war. You only get really good deeds during a war.”

“War is coming,” said Sir Jasper, with a quiet, calm certainty that made the Armourer look at him closely. Sir Jasper shrugged. “I seem to feel it. And I am rarely wrong about these things.”

“Who are you, exactly?” said Bertram, blinking at him through his huge glasses. “I mean, really?”

“I’m Sir Jasper. I think. It’s actually quite freeing, you know . . . not to be certain who you are, or what you were. It takes all the pressure off. But . . . more and more I think I did something bad while I was alive. And that’s why I’m still here. And I know I was here, before. In this place, this Armoury. I drew a great sword and I went out to fight for my country. But who did I fight, and for what cause? For what King? And why do I have this terrible, overwhelming feeling . . . that I have been brought back to Forest Castle for a reason?”

Bertram Pettydew waited patiently, but Sir Jasper had nothing more to say. After a while, the ghost nodded vaguely to the Armourer, and the two of them walked back out of the Armoury. There was a faint layer of dust on the floor, and Bertram couldn’t help noticing that he was the only one leaving footsteps. They finally ended up at the closed main doors. Sir Jasper looked back into the gloom.

“How can you stand to be here, Armourer? This place is full of ghosts.”

“They don’t bother me,” said Bertram kindly.

•   •   •

B
ack in the Great Hall, the Banquet of Welcome was still going strong. Food was still coming, drink was still flowing, and the roar of happy conversations had long since drowned out the orchestra, who had given up, and were now sitting around passing hand-rolleds back and forth. Everything seemed to be going well. The desserts had finally arrived, fabulous creations with more chocolate and cream than even the most hardened digestion could safely handle, and men and women who only a moment before had been heard to say that they couldn’t manage another mouthful, stared at what had just landed on their plates and said, “Oh, go on, then, twist my arm.”

Someone sent a whole raft of drinks over to the orchestra, along with requests, and they cheerfully launched into a series of riotous old folk songs of quite staggering rudeness. Richard knew the lyrics to some of them, and really hoped Catherine didn’t.

Two tables down from the head table, only a dozen feet from where the King and his guests were sitting, a minor Lady stood up suddenly. People cheered her on, thinking she was about to make a toast. She stared around her with bulging eyes, tried desperately to say something, and then fell forward, crashing across the table, and lay still. At first, her neighbours just stared, or made loud remarks about minor aristocracy who couldn’t handle their drink. But then someone leaned forward for a closer look, and recoiled, shouting, “She’s dead! She’s dead!”

The whole hall fell silent. Prince Richard was immediately on his feet, barking out orders, because the King was clearly bewildered. Richard had the guards surround the dead Lady’s table with drawn swords, to make sure no one disturbed the body, and he sent more guards to block off the entrance doors. Guests were rising to their feet all around the hall and clearly getting ready to leave, until Richard’s guards made it clear that wasn’t an option. At sword point, if necessary. The Lords and Ladies glared angrily at Richard, and he glared right back at them until they subsided. He spoke quickly to the Seneschal, making it clear he was not to leave the King’s side, and then Richard went down to take a look at the body.

The Sombre Warrior was also on his feet, standing beside the shaken Princess Catherine with his sword in his hand. The dead woman was none of his concern; he knew his duty. Lady Gertrude moved quickly to sit beside Catherine, in Richard’s empty seat, and held the Princess’ hand firmly in her own. The Seneschal called forward the doctor he’d kept standing by, just in case King Rufus was worse than usual and needed a little something to keep him quiet. Dr. Stein moved quickly over to join Prince Richard. A small and only slightly fussy type of person, he was entirely calm and professional as he examined the dead body, and then looked steadily at Richard.

“Undeniably poison, your highness. Blue lips, flushed face, several other unmistakable signs. As to how . . . ?”

Everyone else who’d been sitting at the table with the dead Lady immediately jumped to their feet and clutched at one another, loudly demanding to be able to leave the table. Richard sent them away with Dr. Stein, along with quiet orders to give them all a good purge, just in case. The King was on his feet now, plaintively demanding to know what was going on, while the Seneschal did his best to calm him, but finally he had to tell the King what had happened.

“It’s the lady Melanie Drayson, Sire. It would appear that she’s been poisoned.”

King Rufus nodded vaguely a few times, and then his head came up sharply, and just like that, his mouth was firm and his eyes were clear.

“Far too minor a line to be the real target, Seneschal. So who was the poison really meant for? Hmm? Has to be the Princess.”

“Poison?” Lady Gertrude said shrilly, rising to her feet and looking wildly about her. “Someone has tried to poison my poppet? That’s it! Catherine, we have to get out of here! We can’t stay in this terrible place a moment longer! We have to go home!”

“Hush, Gertrude! Get a hold of yourself!” Catherine said harshly, and Gertrude immediately quietened. Catherine looked at the Sombre Warrior. “You are still sure the brigands who attacked our carriage came from Redhart? Then I wouldn’t be any safer there, would I? Stop snivelling, Lady Gertrude! Compose yourself. No, the only way for me to be truly safe is to be married. After that, the enemies of the Peace agreement will have no reason to kill me. And the Peace agreement is too important to be risked.” She looked across the quiet hall at Prince Richard. “Do you have any objection to moving our marriage forward, Richard?”