The Kingdoms of Evil (20 page)

Freetrick looked up. Mr. Skree's right eyebrow might have risen the barest millimeter. Bloodbyrn looked like she was preparing to kill or be killed.

"Mr. Skree," he said, "what would happen if I demanded that the coronation take place tonight, instead of the un-wedding? I mean, the stars are apparently especially wicked tonight, and everything."

"Most wicked, Malevolence."

"So if I did order the coronation, would that, like, piss off a lot of people?"

He looked at Bloodbyrn, who now raised her eyebrows, and smiled. "My lord is of course the focus of all hatred in the world, already,"

"Oh. All right then, so they won't be any more inclined to kill me then they already are?"

"The Master of Madness may alter their time-tables or suggest possible methods, but little will affect the motivations of the world's most evil minds, Malevolence." Mr. Skree replied.

"I see. Okay. In that case, first the tour of the castle, then get me ready for the coronation. It will take place tonight."

Freetrick glanced at Bloodbyrn again, who said, "My lord is exceptionally subtle. Perhaps our relationship may offer me some entertainment after all. I am sure we shall meet again later this day."

The careful way she closed the door to his office, made it clear how very much she wanted to slam it.

Freetrick looked at his hands, knuckles white as he gripped the table. He had to move forward. "Can you do this, Mr. Skree?"

Mr. Skree bobbed, "all things are possible when demanded by the Conductor of Devilment."

"Excellent." Freetrick looked at his parchment. "And get this room stocked with some more writing materials." He would have to write a new list, unless he figured out how to erase things written on parchment.

"I obey, Fiend."

"I expect to see my escort in thirty minutes," said Freetrick. There would be no time to relax. He needed to move fast if he was going to get ahead of…oh
yeah
. A smile spread across Freetrick's lips. "Mr. Skree?"

The vampire had not moved, "Fiend?"

"Please inform the Duke DeMacabre that I have requested that
he
lead me around the castle. I am sure there is a lot he can tell me, from half an hour from now until the final preparations for the coronation. Tell him I'm looking forward to his personal instruction."
Ha
! Let the creepy old man scheme behind Freetrick's back when he was playing tour-guide. There.

"Of course, Malevolence."

"That is all, Mr. Skree." Freetrick did not look up as Mr. Skree scuttled across the ceiling and left the room. He had grabbed another sheet of parchment and began writing more notes to himself. For the first time in days, he actually felt optimistic. And he was actually looking forward to the rest of the day.

But first, the list. He had a lot of plans to get in order, and a lot of details to remember. Humming, Freetrick dipped his pen again, and began jotting notations around his most recent list.

GET CROWNED!
It said.

***

Outside Zathara's window, the streets were filled with people. But they were all commoners. She could feel the trickle of their esteem as the Palanquin moved through their ranks. Some were still impressed by ostentation. Others, however, glared at the well-oiled muscles of the palanquin bearers, the bright swords of the guardsmen. Currents of esteem eddied around them.
But it feels, on balance, as if the tide is going out, boys and girls.
"We're not going home?" Zathara asked.

"No," said Nashtang. "To the wharfs. Then one of my warehouses. Then you and I will make our way to the border."

"What—?"

"Zathara," Neeshthura severed her daughter's question with a word and a gesture. "Have patience. There are some things you must tell us before we separate."

"For example," said Nashtang. His voice was serious. "We need to know about your friend Freetrick."

So Zathara swallowed her impatience and confusion. And she talked. She talked until she had dredged up every detail she could remember. About Freetrick's upbringing in a Rationalist orphanage. An institution run by The Rationalist Union's governing academia. "He is almost a personification of the Rationalist ideology," she said. "We live by understanding how the world works and using that knowledge to our advantage. Praying to the gods is a means to an end." She had to pause a moment. Outside, the businesses and town-houses outside began to give way to tenement housing and beer gardens. The air took on the reek of dead fish.

Nashtang looked thoughtful. Neeshthura looked taken aback. "Surely you have…I mean, without religion, how can they tell Good from Evil?"

"I…don't know," Zathara thought back to her conversations with Freetrick. Her observations of other Rationalists. "They believe that being generally kind to other people is a good idea. A rational choice. They just sort of…trust each other."

"And this would be a new change in culture, right?" Nashtang's voice was low and hard. He was exited. "This…this secular humanism must be a product of the new generation. Because this is the generation that has looked at Skrea and asked itself 'why do we allow this?'" He looked soberly at Zathara, "And now your friend Freetrick has become the enemy's new king."

Aha. I believe I am about to be given a mission, boys and girls.
"What have you heard, Daddy?"

"Clever Zathara. I received a correspondence," sighed Nashtang, "only a few hours before you arrived in Pranyapura. A letter from my contact in the Rationalist government. A request to move men and 'materiel of a technical nature' through our House's north-eastern holdings. They want us to watch them demonstrate their new toys."

"But as soon as they cross the mountains, they will lose their word-magic," said mother. "Even with Universal Science, I personally I find it hard to believe that they can hope to compete against Skreans in Skrea."

"That's what they're trying to prove." Zathara realized the truth as she spoke it. "To themselves as well as to their neighbors. Remember that the Rationalist Union, is ruled by academicians. This entire invasion is an
experiment
." Zathara looked at her father. "What are they offering us if we participate?"

Nashtang shrugged. "An offer of payment for Love-Wielder mercenaries. Monetary, spoil, or land. House Suyamuan gets first bid."

"Land?"

Nashtang chuckled. "Don't withhold esteem from Zahtrapura's cleverest merchant prince. I think we could get a nicely-sized Duchy for this. That would be the least the Rationalists could expect to pay, especially since we are the only coastal nation to resist the last Skrean invasion."

People as ugly and grim as the Skreans have stood no chance against Love-wielder charisma, boys and girls
. Zathara smiled as she glanced at the seagulls and advertisers crying outside.

"What we must know," said mother, "is how we can expect Freetrick to react to his new power. If he is as amoral as you say, will he simply join the Skreans in their evil?"

Zathara shook her head. "Istain might, out of lack of care for others. Madene might, for the sake of ambition. Even Kendrick might, because he follows absolute codes of behavior even when he does not agree with them. But Freetrick hates harming others. I don't believe he could ever be convinced to commit the atrocities that previous Skrean kings have."

"Yes," pressed Neeshthura, "but he might be too stupid to avoid doing harm. Or he might be too weak to prevent his advisors from doing harm."

Zathara looked out the window. The light was fading. And with it, the sounds of the city. The streets outside were becoming strangely silent.

"Zathara?" Neeshthura pushed. "What will Freetrick do with a nation placed into his hands?"

Zathara pulled her mind back to the interior of the palanquin. She thought of gara practices. "He certainly knows how to move people in ways they don't want to move."

"So he will insist on doing what is right?"

Zathara smiled.
Thank the Goddess of Love for college bullshit sessions
. "Not what is right," she said, "but what is smart."

"So we can expect him," said Nashtang, after a moment, "to tear the Kingdoms of Evil apart."

Zathara blinked. "Yes." She said. "The Rationalists couldn't have picked a better agent to send in ahead of the invasion."

Nashtang coughed.

"That, Daddy, is my own analysis." Zathara smiled at her father.

His mouth quirked up in the rising shadows. "I am glad to see that your analysis agrees with ours. Now." He looked out the window at the dimming warehouses beyond. "We're coming to our destination. Zathara, you will accompany me to---"

Zathara raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think that before I depart for Skrea, I should know a little more about the greater context?"

Daddy's mouth widened into a true smile. "Clever Zathara." She felt esteem flow from all of them. It was a curious sensation to accept esteem from family. Beautiful and uncomfortable.

Tears rose like a tide behind Zathara's eyes. She turned to look out the window and hide her face from her parents.

And so she saw it when the outwardmost two palanquin bearers on her side reached into their belt pouches. She had time to cry out a warning as they pulled out short swords and leapt at the guardsmen.

Deep in the bowels of Castle Clouds-Gather, Freetrick walked the Hall of Damned Kings. The Hall stretched from the office and apartments of the Ultimate Fiend to the only door to the rest of the castle, and Freetrick's heart sank as he realized he was going to have to walk past all this creepy artwork at least twice a day for the rest of his life.

Statues glared at his passing with slick stone eyes. Portraits pressed themselves against the sweating walls, grim visages glowering out from scenes of ravage and genocide going back four hundred years. There was a lot of red and black, and lots of skulls—Freetrick noted with no surprise that the royal portrait artists had gotten
really
good at skulls—and lots of melodrama. The history of Skrea slid past him in a blur of bloody claws, burning eyes, and shadowed brows. Freetrick could almost hear the maniacal laughter.

At the end of the hall, close to the doors that lead to the rest of the castle, Freetrick saw the final portrait. Its subject was a powerfully-built man posturing self-importantly on what looked like a battlefield. This one, like the other most recent generations of kings, stood in an actual oil painting, framed in gilt, with a little plaque next to it declaring his names and the dates of his reigns in Skrean Rationalist and another language Freetrick assumed was Sangboise. "Wrothborg," Freetrick read aloud, "the Bloody-Handed. So you're my real father?" Freetrick looked up at the portrait.

Freetrick had looked up records on his Wrothborg's acts as king. Looking for advice, and for a connection to the past. Based on everything Freetrick
had
been able to find out about his father, the man had not so much ruled the kingdom as hunted it.

And here the man was, posed for his portrait in a suit of armor that looked like an explosion at the Pointy Black Metal Things factory, standing on what looked like a pile of burning corpses.

"True Words," muttered Freetrick, "what a bastard you must have been."

"
High Ru-lah of the Shadow!
" Screeched a voice in his ear.

Freetrick spun around, caught a spiked shoulder pad on a torch holder, and nearly toppled over. A hand flew to his face to protect his pince-nez, which took the opportunity to try to leap off his nose. "The hell?!"

"I sal-
yute
you, Fee-ahed and Ex-alted Mastah!" The voice was high and harsh, which a nails-on-chalk-board undertone.

"That's…that's great," Freetrick steadied himself against a pillar, then pulled away quickly when he felt how cold and clammy it was. "I suppose you must be my bodyguard."

"Yes, Mastah!"

They walked out of the door at the end of the corridor. Looking back, he saw the two hulking shapes on each side. The guards stood in closet-sized recessed chambers, shrouded in shadows. It was easy enough, however, to make out the tusks and the huge round eyes—one had three. More ogres.

The one who had spoken looked less terrible. The commander of guards was standing free in the corridor, and appeared to be completely normal---if very thin---human male, his upper body nearly horizontal in a deep bow. "If you-ah
sah
-vant may be pah-
mitt
-ed to int-ro-
dyoose
himself. I am Com-
man
-dah Skystarke of the Secret Police!"

That voice would take some getting used to, though. Freetrick gritted his teeth. "Look, you wouldn't mind toning it down a little…uh?"

Freetrick's voice trailed off as Skystarke straightened from his bow and Freetrick focused on his face. And he had thought the eight foot ogres were horrible-looking
.
Tusks and glowing eyes would be an improvement.

"My life and death ah at you-ah sah-viss."

It was the way his skin slipped over his skull as he spoke, thought Freetrick. As if it didn't quite fit him.

"May you ga-row migh-ty in Evil, Malevolence!"