The next level by David Niall Wilson 3 page

“Mercy, Majesty!” The carter dropped to his knees at her feet and laced rough, work‑reddened fingers together. “He threatened my family, said he’d slit their throats in the dark if I didn’t help him.”

The queen sighed, ignoring the screaming as the wounded assassin burned. “How could he slit their throats if he was hiding in the back of your cart?”

“Majesty?”

“Once you took him away from your family, he couldn’t slit their throats and all you had to do was drive up to anyone in a Queen’s Tabard and tell them what you had hidden in the hay. Since you didn’t do that, I can only assume one of two situations apply. The first is that you were delivering him of your own free will. The second is that you are too stupid to live.” Twitching her skirts aside, she raised her hand. “Since the end result is the same for either,” she told the body as it fell, bristling with arrows. “It’s not particularly relevant which applies. Now then…” She turned to the gate guards. “… this is exactly why we don’t allow carts filled with loose hay into the city. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Majesty!”

“I’m pleased to hear that. We’ll let this incident stand as an object lesson…” The assassin had finally stopped screaming, “… but I’m disappointed in both of you‑a rule is a rule and although you didn’t allow the cart through the palace gate, you did let the carter argue. That might have given the assassin time to slip inside and then how would you have felt?”

“Terrible, Majesty,” admitted the guard on the left.

“Terrible,” agreed the guard on the right, his eyes watering a little from the smoke.

“I certainly hope so. If you want to make it up to me, you can find out who let this cart into the city because I’m very disappointed in them. Wallace!”

“Majesty!” Her aide stepped over a bit of burning wheel.

“I don’t imagine there’s enough left of the body to identify but check his weapons. Let me know as soon as you have something. Oh, and Wallace?” Arrabel paused, her escort pausing in perfect formation with her. “See that the mule is given a good home. Something about it reminds me of my late husband.”

“His knives are Mecadain, Majesty.” Wallace laid all four blades in a row on the table. “As were what was left of his boots.”

There was no point in asking if he were sure. He wouldn’t have told her if he wasn’t. “King Giorge again.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“I was planning to invade Mecada next spring.”

“I think that’s why he was trying to remove you, Majesty.”

“Yes, well, you’d think that someone who didn’t want me to invade would put a little more effort into making friends and a little less effort into annoying me.” The queen walked around the table slowly, her heels rapping out a piqued beat against the parquet floor. She stared down at the knives and shook her head. “When I look at these, I’m very annoyed.” A slight, almost inaudible sound drew her attention to her aide. “Oh, not at you, Wallace. At King Giorge. Tell General Palatat that I’d like to see him and his senior staff. And then find me a few bards who wouldn’t mind a new wardrobe and an all expense paid trip to Mecada.”

“A new wardrobe, Majesty?”

“I think we should let the people of Mecada know what their king has gotten them into and the bards will be able to reach more people if they’re not so obviously mine.”

Arrabel was the sole patron of the Bardic College. It was amazing how many bards preferred to sing warm and well‑fed, permitted to travel freely about the land wearing the queen’s colors. Of course, there were always a few who insisted on suffering for art’s sake‑so Arrabel saw to it that they did.

The queen accompanied her army into Mecada, turned a captured border town into a well fortified command center, and stayed there.

“You won’t be riding at the front of your army, Mother?”

“No, Danyel. When the ruler rides at the front of the army, she only gets in the way.”

“And there is also the great danger you would be in, Majesty!”

She glanced across the war room at Captain Jurin standing amid a group of staff officers and sighed. “Thank you for considering that, Captain.”

He blushed.

“I’m not afraid,” Danyel declared.

Arrabel settled her shawl more securely around her shoulders and stared at her son for a long moment. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “I’m sure you aren’t,” she said at last. “Chose then whether you stay here or ride into battle.”

“I will ride into battle!”

She sighed again. “You’re beginning to remind me so much of your father. You’ll be treated as nothing more than a junior officer, say…” Her eyes fell on Captain Jurin, “… a captain. Wallace.”

“Majesty?”

“Have a captain’s uniform made for my son.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Danyel stared at her, appalled “But‑”

“Billy goats butt, dear. You’ll obey your commanders because their orders come from General Palatat‑”

“But, Mother, I’m a prince!”

“‑and General Palatat,” Arrabel continued mildly, “speaks for me.” She took his silence for assent and smiled. “Don’t grind your teeth, dear. Of course you’ll keep the lines of communication open between the battle and this command center,” she told the general. “But I trust you and your staff to do their job.” Which went without saying really because they wouldn’t have their jobs if she didn’t.

Queen Arrabel’s army had the advantage of numbers, training, and motivation. King Giorge’s people, invaded only because they were next on the list, had only the moral high ground.

* * *

“Free bread and beer, Mother?” Danyel, back in full royal regalia, rubbed at a smudge on his vanbrace as he rode beside his mother through the conquered capital.

“It doesn’t take much to make the people like you, dear. It’s worth making a bit of an effort.”

“But you just conquered them.”

“Most people don’t care who’s in charge just as long as someone is.”

“And the people who do care?”

“Are easy enough to replace.” Arrabel stared out at the city‑many of its buildings damaged by her siege engines during the final battle‑and began working out the amount of stone it would take to rebuild it. And, of course, there were schools to be built. Some of the more recalcitrant nobility could start hauling blocks in as soon as possible.

She let Danyel emerge first at the palace, waiting until her escort was in place before she stepped out of the carriage. She wore her usual neat clothing over sensible shoes and was well aware that next to her more flamboyant son she looked like a sparrow next to a peacock.

People tended not to shoot at sparrows.

“Mother, why didn’t you wear your crown?” Danyel asked her as they stepped carefully over the shattered remains of the palace gate.

“Everyone who needs to know who I am, knows.” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she stopped in the outer courtyard and glanced over at a group of Mecadian soldiers‑prisoners now‑huddled next to the smoking ruin of what had probably been a stable.

“Wallace.”

“Majesty?”

“Make sure they let their mothers know they survived.”

“Yes, Majesty. And the ones who didn’t survive?”

“Well, they’ll hardly be able to write home now, will they?”

General Palatat met them outside King Giorge’s throne room in front of the enormous brass‑bound doors. “The door’s been spelled, Majesty, we can’t break it down. But they’re still in there‑King Giorge, Queen Fleya, both princes, both princesses.”

“Personal guards?”

“They died out here, Majesty, covering the royal family’s retreat.”

“All of them?” She glanced over at the liveried bodies piled out of the way. “My, that was short‑sighted.”

“Yes, Majesty. One of the princesses has been talking through the keyhole. She says her brothers want to negotiate a surrender but they’ll only speak to you. Royal to royal as it were.”

“They could speak to me,” Danyel muttered.

His mother ignored him. “Do you think the princes will negotiate in good faith?”

“They are considered to be honorable men,” the general told her. “They will do what they feel is right regardless of the consequences.”

“They take after their father then.” The queen stared at the door to the throne room. The smart thing for King Giorge to have done would have been to get his family out of the country when it became obvious he’d lost‑which would have been about half an hour after the first battle had been joined. Arrabel assumed he’d refused to leave his people or some such nonsense. “Well, tell them I’m here.”

At the general’s signal, one of the Queen’s Tabards banged on the door with a spear butt.

“Is she there?” Interestingly, the girl sounded more annoyed than distressed.

“I am.”

“There’s a secret exit at the end of the hall, by a statue of my father. Do you see it?”

“The statue?” There were ankles on a plinth and rather a lot of rubble. A bit of the rubble seemed to be wearing a stone crown. “No but I can see where it was.”

“My brothers will come out, stripped to their breeches so you can see they’re weaponless. You approach them alone and they’ll give you our father’s terms of surrender.”

“I’m to approach alone?” A raised hand cut off the general’s protest. “At two to one odds?”

“We know you have archers with you. You always have archers with you!”

“True enough. Very well, given that I have archers, I will meet you at the end of the hall.” She sighed and smoothed a wrinkle out of her skirt. “Wallace?”

“Yes, Majesty?”

“Am I getting predictable?

“Only in the best of all possible ways, Majesty.”

Arrabel glanced over at him and when he bowed, she smiled but before she could compliment his answer, a section of the wall at the end of the hall slid back and a half‑naked young man emerged. And then a second.

Both princes were in their mid‑twenties, not quite two years apart in age, and, given that very little was left to the imagination, in obviously fine condition. Muscles rippled everywhere muscles could ripple. One wore his golden hair loose, the other tied his darker hair back, but except for that they could have been twins. That she had an appreciation for handsome men was no secret so she suspected Giorge had sent out his sons because he expected they’d get better terms.

“Mother, I could take them.”

“Not now dear, Mother’s going to go negotiate.” She walked purposefully forward and stopped a body length and an equal distance from both princes. “Well?”

The blond cocked his head, gray eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like I imagined.”

“Is there any reason I should?”

Before he could respond, the brunet charged at her, screaming.

At least one, maybe two of the arrows passed so close she felt the breeze. As the prince hit the floor, she rolled her eyes. “That was stupid.”

“No,” the other prince snarled. “That was a sacrifice. Your archers cannot save you now; my brother’s death has disarmed them. For what you have done to my people, I will kill you with my bare hands and yes, I expect to die just after but…” He stopped and stared in astonishment at the half dozen arrows suddenly protruding from his chest, one of them adorned with a small piece of fabric. “But…”

“My archers can reload, aim, and fire in under seven seconds,” Arrabel told him as he dropped heavily to his knees. “Never pause to gloat, dear,” she added, patting his cheek as he sagged back.

“Mother! Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“But what if he’d grabbed you and used you as a shield?” Danyel grabbed her arm to illustrate and a long, thin knife slid out from under her neat, lace‑trimmed cuff, scoring a line along the enamel on his vanbrace.

“Then I’d have dealt with it myself,” she said, pulling free of his slackened grip. “Although I’m just as glad I didn’t have to.” The knife disappeared. “I’m quite fond of this dress and I’d hate to have gotten blood all over it. And speaking of this dress…” she turned to face her archers, brandishing the hole in her full skirt. “Who took the shot that went through here?”

A very pale young man stumbled forward and dropped to one knee. He was shaking so hard it sounded as though he was tapping his bow against the floor.

“Conner Burd isn’t it? Your mother runs a small dairy on the outside of the capital.”

The young archer managed part of a nod.

“Let that be a lesson to you all, if my life is in danger, don’t worry about my clothing and don’t feel you’re redundant just because another five arrows are heading for the target. Those arrows could miss. Good shot, Conner. General Palatat.”

“Majesty!”

“Stop trying to break through the door and go through the wall.”

“Majesty?”

“No one ever thinks to have a wizard spell more than the door. Get a few strapping young men up here with sledgehammers and go through the wall.” Her tone suggested she’d better not have to repeat herself a third time.

The queen was not the first to step through the breach in the wall. The queen was the sixteenth to enter, after fourteen soldiers, General Palatat, and her son. The first soldier through the breech took a tapestry pole to the back of the head.

The throne room was empty except for the royal family. King Giorge sat slumped in his throne, head on his chest. Queen Fleya sat at his feet, sobbing. One of the princesses, her hair a mass of tangled mahogany curls and showing just a little too much cleavage for the situation, stood snarling by her father’s side, the tapestry pole having been taken away from her with only minor damage. The other princess, blond hair neatly tied back, arms folded over her sensible cardigan, stood just behind her sister, frowning slightly.

“You can’t touch him now,” Queen Fleya cried as Arrabel approached the throne. “He’s gone beyond your control!”

Arrabel cocked her head and studied the king, his lips and eyelids were a pale blue‑green. “Took poison, has he?”

Eyes red with weeping, Fleya’s lip curled. “He knew he could expect no mercy!”

“It’s hardly practical to leave live enemies behind me now, is it?” she answered switching her attention to the queen. “I wonder what he thought I’d do with you.”

“You will force me into exile with my daughters and the body of my dead husband and we will live out our lives torn from the country we love.” She wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “It’s what is done.”

“Really? The upholstery on the throne‑it’s expensive is it?”

Fleya looked up at the embroidered gold velvet under her husband and back at Arrabel, confused. “Yes but‑”

“Hard to keep clean?”

“I expect so but‑”

“General Palatat.”

“Majesty.”

“There’s no reason to make things more difficult than we have to for the staff. Have King Giorge’s body dragged down to the floor then behead him.”

The queen and the dark‑haired princess screamed out versions of, “You can’t!”

The second princess said nothing at all.

When Giorge’s head came off enough blood gushed from the stump of his neck to partially obscure an impressive mosaic map of the kingdom set into the throne‑room floor. Released by the soldier who held her, Queen Fleya ran to her husband’s side.

Danyel said, “But Mother, he was already dead.”

“Dead men don’t bleed like that, Danyel.” Arrabel stepped back as the blood spread. “The poison only feigned death. After the three of them reached exile it would wear off and Giorge would rise from his supposed grave to seek vengeance.”

“But how did you know?”

“It’s what I would have done, dear. Wallace.”

“Majesty?”

“Make sure he’s cremated.”

“Nooooooooooooo!” Fleya’s wailed protest drew everyone’s attention. Sitting on the floor, her silk skirts soaking up the king’s blood, she held his headless body clasped tight in her arms. “You will not take him from me! I will not go into exile without my Giorge!”

Arrabel sighed. “Of course you won’t.” She raised her hand. Because of the late king’s body, four of the arrows went into Fleya’s upper torso, the other two went one into each eye. “All right, who risked the eye shots?” When two of the archers admitted as much, she smiled at them and pointed a teasing finger. “There’s no need to show off, I know how good you are. Now then…” Lifting her skirts, she walked around the growing puddle. “This is taking far too long. You.” The same finger pointed at the dark‑haired princess, held struggling between two Tabards. “You’ll marry my son, giving his claim to rule this kingdom validity.”

“Never!”

She raised a hand. “I expected as much,” she sighed as the body hit the floor and pointed at the second princess. “ You’ll marry my son and give his claim to rule this kingdom validity.”

The girl stared into Arrabel face for a moment then shrugged. “All right.”

“Don’t shrug, dear. It’s common.” A slight frown as recognition dawned. “That was your voice at the door.”

“Yes.”

“The poison was your plan.”

“Yes.”

“And your brothers’ attempt?”

“My plan.”

“Really? What’s your name?”

“Mailynne.”

“How old are you, Mailynne?”

“Seventeen.”

“I imagine you have some ideas about how the kingdom should be run.”

Mailynne’s gray eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Mother, I don’t want to be married.” Danyel reached to grab her arm, noticed the gouge on his vanbrace and thought better of it.

Arrabel and Mailynne turned together. “That’s not really relevant, dear.”

“But…” He paused, mouth open. “Wait. I’m to rule this kingdom?”

“Under my guidance.”

“But you’ll be at home?”

“Yes.”

Dark brows drew in. “And I’ll be here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” His smile showed perfect teeth and an enchanting dimple. “Well, that’s different then.”

His mother placed her hand in the center of the princess’ back and gently pushed her forward. The girl was wearing some kind of harness under her sweater that probably held at least one weapon. “You will rule Mecada with Mailynne at your side.”

“As you say, Mother.” Danyel bent and kissed the princess’ hand. “I want an enormous wedding,” he announced when he straightened.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. You don’t bankrupt a county that’s recently lost a war just so you can have a party. Wallace.”

“Majesty?”

“We’ll need someplace central with good security but high visibility.”

“And somewhere we can release a hundred white doves!”

“Doves aren’t really relevant right now, Danyel.”

“The surviving nobility that served my father should be there,” Mailynne suggested as her future husband pouted.

Arrabel turned a maternal smile on the girl. “That’s not really relevant either, dear.”

The wedding was short but beautiful. As a wedding present, Arrabel left a regiment of the Queen’s Tabards in Mecada to help keep the peace. Her new daughter‑in‑law narrowed her eyes but accepted the gift graciously.

Because there was correspondence to go over, Wallace rode with her in the carriage on the way home.

“Wallace?”

“Yes, Majesty?”

“How long do you figure Danyel will last?”

“Majesty?”

“I expect she’ll keep him around until she has an heir. And I expect that will happen as soon as possible.”

“But Majesty…”

“As much as he adored me, he was becoming a distraction. Mother this and Mother that and eventually he’d distract me at a bad time. This girl was a good choice, Wallace, I won’t live forever and I’d like to think‑on that very distant day‑that I was leaving my people in good hands. Hands that wouldn’t undo all the work I’ve done.”

“She does remind me a little of you, Majesty.”

“Yes.” Arrabel picked up the wrapped slice of wedding cake from the seat beside her and tossed it out the window. “She does, doesn’t she?”

TO SIT IN DARKNESS HERE, HATCHING VAIN EMPIRES by Steven A. Roman

I poisoned my niece today.

Just turned six, and still wondering why her mother‑my younger sister, Sienna‑never comes to see her anymore. Desperately seeking assurance from me that it’s not because Mommy stopped loving her; that it wasn’t something she did wrong that made Mommy go away.

It’s heartrending to watch a child try to come to terms with something they may never understand, try to find the logic in an illogical situation. They’ll work on the problem, attempt to examine it from every angle, rack their brains trying to recall the precise moment, the one event, when everything in their young life started to come apart. And finally, when no answer presents itself, they reach the only conclusion their young minds can comprehend: Something bad happened, and it was all their fault.

What, exactly, that “bad thing” might be they can’t put into words because, really, they don’t know themselves. But experience has taught them that adults can be rude and angry and abusive; that adults don’t always have a logical reason to be mad at someone; that adults can often take out their frustrations on their children. And if an adult, especially a parent, stops talking to you, stops coming to see you, then you must have done something so unbelievably terrible that they never want to see you again.

But now she won’t have to trouble herself with such thoughts. Gillian is, as the old saying goes, in a far better place than this… although considering the state of the world today, that really isn’t saying much. Heaven, hell, purgatory, the void‑ any place would be better than here. All I sought to do was end her suffering (well, hers and mine). And if I were the type who believed in God, I might be able to console myself with the image of a mother and her daughter reunited for eternity in the afterlife.

No, her mother hadn’t stopped loving her; of that I have no doubts. And I had no trouble in telling her she wasn’t the one responsible for Mommy’s absence because she had done nothing to anger my sister. What proved difficult for me was in trying to explain the real reason for the disturbing lack of motherly attention. Gillian was meant to visit me for a weekend; after a year, I’d run out of excuses for why Sienna had never come back to pick up her daughter.

Yes, I suppose I could have just told her the truth, but I never did. I never could. Perhaps it was out of some ridiculous notion that I was protecting her in some way‑from what, exactly, I haven’t a clue. Or maybe it was sheer cowardice that stilled my tongue‑fear of how negatively she might have reacted were I to tell her everything. (Although why I should have been bothered by the thought of a child directing her hatred at me, when I’d spent a lifetime accumulating enemies who wanted me dead, still escapes me. No doubt it had something to do with our familial connection.) The bottom line was that I’d never been able to work up the nerve to tell her what really happened: that her kindly uncle Josiah was the one who made Sienna go away… along with the rest of the earth’s population.

I mean, how do you explain to a child that you murdered an entire world, even if it was by accident?

There was still a hint of December in the April winds that afternoon when everything went so horribly wrong: the sort of temperate breeze that made it too chilly for T‑shirts, yet too warm for winter coats. That didn’t keep the multitudes indoors for long, however‑with the first sign in weeks that winter had finally started to relax its five‑month grip on the city, the lunchtime streets of Amicus were fairly overflowing with humanity. Secretaries and bike messengers, businessmen in shirtsleeves and mothers with their infants, the first ice cream truck of the year parked at the curb in front of the park‑was there any better proof that spring was fast approaching? And the beautiful young women passing by in short skirts and tight jeans, their blouses filled to bursting… my God, they were everywhere, it seemed. Like sleek‑limbed gazelles prancing across the veldt, eyed hungrily by the young cubs sprawled on the grass.

Truly, it was the sort of day when, as a far better poet than I once put it, “a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.” But all I could think of was, It’s almost a pity they’re all going to die…

Now, when I rose from bed the day before, formulating a plan that might result in the deaths of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of innocent men, women, and children wasn’t the first thing that entered my mind‑such fanciful notions never were. In fact, I rarely started my mornings contemplating murder on such a grand scale. It wasn’t something you could just rush into; rather, it was a mindset you gradually eased into during the course of the day. Burned toast, having to shower with cold water because the heater was on the fritz, reviewing profit‑and‑loss financial statements based on the last failed attempt to subjugate humanity‑of such minor annoyances were plans for widespread anarchy born. It really wasn’t until early afternoon that I’d built up a good head of steam to begin my plotting, and then only after I’d checked the papers and cable news channels to see what mayhem had been wrought in the world while I was getting a good night’s sleep. I hated devising a truly masterful scheme only to discover that some third‑rate dictator from a postage‑stamp‑size European country no one had ever heard of had the very same idea… especially when he was able to carry it out for a third of the cost I’d budgeted for mine.

It made me feel… inadequate.

But whenever I slipped into such periods of ennui, Elsinore, my beloved paramour and second‑in‑command, was there to bolster my spirits. “Of course he was able to do it on the cheap, my love,” she would tell me, “and that is why his plan was doomed to fail from the start. Remember: ‘You have to spend money to make money.’ And if he wasn’t willing to invest in top‑of‑the‑line battle armor for his legions, or purchase a real thermonuclear device instead of just an empty casing for show, then how could he possibly have expected to control a major city?”

As the Righteous Brothers‑the musical group, not that trio of do‑gooding idiots with the fake Spanish accents‑once put it, she was my hope, my inspiration. Elsinore had seen me through the good times and the bad, the highs and the lows, the victories and the lengthy prison sentences. And not once had she ever complained‑not during that (I now admit) crazed period when I insisted she wear pink thigh‑high boots, hot pants, and sheer blouses, and not that time I ordered her to shoot my former second‑in‑command for betraying me to the authorities. No greater love had a woman ever shown for a man then when she executed her own father while he begged for mercy.

Dear, sweet, raven‑haired Elsinore. I miss her so, these days‑the touch of her skin, the sweet taste of her lips. How I wish it hadn’t been necessary to strangle her as she drifted off to sleep, but after a year in this underground hell, what little stale, recycled oxygen remains is a precious commodity. And yet, I’ll always have that last night of passion to remind me of the love we shared. That, and the terrified look in her dimming eyes as she desperately clawed at her pillows, only to realize I’d already removed the gun she kept under them. Sometimes, late at night, I can still feel her lying beside me in bed, her warm body quivering against mine as the garotte tightened around her slender throat; can still hear the almost sensuous whisper of her death rattle as she struggled to draw that one final breath past the cord that had closed off her windpipe.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once I was satisfied that my latest idea hadn’t been duplicated, I sat down with my trusted advisers to discuss how best to implement it. Krayle normally handled the tactical aspects of the operation, hiring any dimwitted, strapped‑for‑cash “muscle” needed to replace those lost in the last debacle, then working with me on agent positioning, contingency plans, and escape routes‑one never knew when a hasty retreat might have been required. In this case, however, I was working with a much smaller canvas: the operation only required a single synthadroid placed in the heart of the city. Smythe was in charge of intelligence gathering, using my global network of undercover agents, computer hackers, and surveillance satellites to provide me with all I needed to know about the chosen target area: traffic flow, law enforcement presence, average number of city dwellers on the streets at a certain hour, etc. Alessi ran accounting, making sure we never went over budget, even when it came to some of the more… esoteric items I often required. (You couldn’t just go down to Costco and pick up a cold fusion reactor, after all.) I must say, he was quite pleased with this small‑scale project‑at least at the start. And Gillian…