Prophecy: Child of Earth

2

Sir Francis Pratt, the emissary from Canderre, blinked several times and swallowed nervously. When this duty had been assigned he had pled rheumatism and an unreliable bladder in the attempt to get out of it, believing that the possible curtailment of his career as an ambassador was preferable to a posting to Ylorc. His attempts had fallen on deaf ears, and now here he was, following a subhuman guide to the head of the jumbled line waiting with grim anticipation to see the new Firbolg king.

His colleagues in the ambassadorial service were as agitated as he was. No chamberlain was present to greet them or to organize their interviews into any semblance of appropriate placement. Instead, emissaries of high-ranking provinces and duchies milled about in confusion, attempting to devise a self-invented pecking order of sorts. This was causing more consternation among the powerful ambassadors than the lesser ones; tempers were running very near the surface as the emissaries from Bethany and Sorbold argued about who should be standing nearer the door. In any civilized court the two men would never have even been invited on the same day, let alone left to sort out their differences themselves.

Canderre, Pratt’s homeland, was a region of little political influence. Among the provinces of Roland it was seen by and large as a low-ranking region, populated primarily by gentlemen farmers, craftsman, merchants, and peasants. None of the more famous of the Orlandan lines lived there, although several of the dukes held Canderian estates, and Cedric Canderre, the province’s duke, came from a House that was considered a reputable one. Therefore it was a major discomfiture to him when the Firbolg guard had come into the room, demanding to know who was there from Canderre. He had considered stepping behind a tapestry but had determined that such an action would cost him his life, not because of its evasiveness but rather due to the hideous stench of the heavy wall hangings. What lay behind them could not possibly be conducive to one’s continued good health.

So he owned up to his role and found, to his horror, that the guard planned to bypass all the waiting emissaries in favor of presenting him now, first, to the Firbolg court. He could feel the astonishment and furor of his colleagues, invisible daggers piercing his back as he followed the grisly man into the Great Hall.

He breathed an initial sigh of relief upon entering the enormous room.

Contrary to the whispered rumors, there was no throne of bones, no dais trimmed with human skulls. Instead there were two enormous chairs carved from marble, inlaid with a channel of blue and gold giltwork and padded with cushions of ancient manufacture. His eyes roamed over them in wonder. Undoubtedly they were the legendary thrones of Gwylliam and Anwyn, unchanged from the days when this was the Cymrian seat of power, the place Gwylliam had named Canrif.

In one of these ancient chairs sat the Firbolg king. He was swathed in black robes that covered even his face, all but the eyes. Sir Francis was grateful; judging just by the eyes, if more was visible he would undoubtedly be trembling. The eyes stared piercingly at him, assessing him as though sizing up a brood mare or a harlot.

Standing behind the occupied throne was a giant of immense proportion, a broad-faced, flat-nosed monster with hidelike multitoned skin that was the color of old bruises. His shoulders were as broad as the yoke of a two-ox plow, and he was attired in a dress uniform trimmed with medals and ribbons. Sir Francis felt his head swim. The room was taking on a nightmarish quality that made everything seem surreal.

The only apparently normal person in the room sat on the top stair next to the unoccupied throne. It was a teenage girl with long, straw-colored hair, her face unremarkable. What drew the eye was the game she was playing; she was engaged in a solo round of mumblety-peg, using a long, thin dirk, absently stabbing in between each of her extended fingers that rested on her knee with an astonishing speed and obvious accuracy. The impressive feat of manual dexterity caused Sir Francis to shudder involuntarily.

“What’s your name?” demanded the king. His Firbolg blood was not immediately visible, but then nothing was except those unsettling eyes. The emissary decided he was probably of mixed race, as his physical frame did not resemble that of any of the gruesome specimens of the citizenry he had encountered thus far. Obviously standard court etiquette was not going to be the rule of order here.

“Sir Francis Pratt, Your Majesty, emissary from the court of Lord Cedric Canderre. It is an honor to be here.”

“Yes, it is,” said the king. “I doubt you know it yet, but you will. Before we get to points, do you have something you are supposed to say?”

Sir Francis swallowed his rising ire. “Yes, Your Majesty.” There was something inherently repulsive about having to address a Bolg by the title that had not been used since the last true king occupied that throne. “Lord Cedric sends you his congratulations on your ascendancy, and wishes you a long and joyous reign.”

The king smiled; the expression was clear even beneath his cloaked face. “I’m very glad to hear that. Here’s how he can assure that my reign is joyous: I want Canderre to perform an economic experiment for me.”

Sir Francis blinked. He had never been addressed so bluntly before. Generally the art of diplomacy involved a respected, complicated dance full of ritual and intricacy, like a courtship of sorts. In his youth it had been a game he relished, but as he grew older he had tired of it, and tended to place more of a value on plain-spokenness than he had when he was younger. He found the directness of the monstrous king surprisingly refreshing.

“What sort of experiment, Your Majesty?”

The Firbolg king gestured, and two of his minions came forward, one bearing a beautifully carved chair fashioned in a dark wood the color of black walnut but with a deeper, richer luster and an almost blue undertone. The other held a silver tray on which rested a goblet. There was something oddly amusing about the delicacies in hairy Firbolg hands. The chair was placed behind him, the glass before him.

“Sit.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Sir Francis sat and accepted the goblet. He sniffed it surreptitiously, hoping to be subtle, but he could see that the king had noticed what he had done immediately. The wine it contained had an elegant bouquet.

To make up for his rude action he took a deep drink. He had swallowed before the flavor caught up with him; it was surprisingly good, with a rich, full body and a tang that was barely perceptible. Like most nobles in Canderre, Sir Francis knew wine, and he was impressed by the king’s choice. He took another sip. It was a young wine, undoubtedly just a spring pressing, one that needed a little time to reach full maturity, but a bellwether of vines that would produce excellent grapes in a year or two.

The king motioned again, and two more guards came in, bearing an enormous nautical net. They dropped it on the floor at Sir Francis’s feet. He bent to pick up a corner of it and found that he could lift almost all of it, a feat of which he had never expected to be capable. He knew most nets of that size weighed a tremendous amount, but for some reason this one was only a fraction of standard weight. Instantly the value of it was apparent to him.

“Where did you get this?”

The Firbolg king sighed in annoyance. “Do not give me the impression that Cedric Canderre sent me an idiot.”

Sir Francis’s face flushed. “I’m sorry.”

The giant’s face spread into a wide grin, revealing grotesque teeth. “Well, yes, we’ve thought so all along, but we’re far too polite to say so.”

“We made it, obviously. What’s your opinion of it, Pratt?”

“It’s amazing.” Sir Francis turned the rope net over in his hands. “The workmanship is extraordinary, as is the material.”

The Firbolg king nodded, and signaled once more. A chest was dropped at Sir Francis’s feet. The emissary opened it; what he lifted out made him blush. It was a set of lingerie, fashioned from intricately crocheted silk threads, or something that looked like them. It was softer than gossamer, and had a natural sheen to the textile, but what was most appealing about it was the design. It was spare and cut in a scandalous way, but still beautiful and elegant, like the more refined and staid camisoles and undergarments Canderre was famous for producing. The process by which the garment was crafted was totally unknown to him, a situation he would have thought impossible, given his training and background.

“What do you call this?” he asked.

“Underwear, you nitwit,” said the girl without looking up from her game.

“Oi call mine ‘Beulah,’ ” offered the giant Bolg helpfully.

“I meant the fiber, the process,” said the emissary.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the Firbolg king. He glanced at Grunthor, and they exchanged a nod. Rhapsody’s expertise on such things was borne out; she knew what women felt beautiful in, and in what men wanted to see them. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, indeed, it’s very impressive.”

“What about the wine?”

Sir Francis’s eyes opened in amazement. “That’s a Firbolg product as well?” The hooded king nodded. Pratt rubbed his neck, trying to sort out his comments and thoughts. “What form does this economic experiment take?”

The king leaned forward slightly. “We wish to test the interest in these things, without revealing their origins as yet.” It was Sir Francis’s turn to nod. “I want you to put them into your trade stream, sell these products through your merchant network. They will be assumed to be Canderian, and their quality will be judged against the high standards that name invokes.”

Sir Francis smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Sire.”

“In a year’s time you will report back to me accurately about the performance of these products. I warn you, don’t ever try to dupe me, Pratt; I don’t take well to it. I’d offer to let you question someone who tried, but there are none presently alive.”

The elderly ambassador drew himself up to his full height. “I assure you, Sire, strictly honorable trade practices are an age-old matter of pride in Canderre.”

“So I’ve heard. I just want to be sure that is true, even when your suppliers are Firbolg.”

“Of course.”

“Good. If, at the end of the year, there is a demand, as I expect there will be, we will enter into a trade agreement by which Canderre will be granted the exclusive right to sell certain Bolg merchandise, specifically the luxury items. In addition, we will consider selling you the raw materials to use in your own manufacturing, specifically the grapes and the wood.”

Pratt looked confused. “Wood?”

The giant laughed. “Look under yer arse, sonny.”

The emissary checked the chair beneath him. When he looked up the new admiration was apparent on his face. “Well, well. This certainly has been an interesting day.”

The king smirked. “You feeling genuinely honored yet, Pratt?”

“Yes, indeed.” Sir Francis smiled. In a strange way, he was.

Centuries had passed since the road to Canrif had seen such traffic as Shrike saw today. Not since the wedding celebration a thousand years earlier had a host of hopeful emissaries trod their way through the waiting front gates as they did now, and as they had apparently been doing for days.

He almost laughed out loud at the high and mighty falling over themselves, pretending to legitimize the reign of a monster over what had at one time been the richest fortress of this world or the last. He stopped himself when he realized he had been sent on the same mission as they had: to discover who this new king was, get a glimpse of what remained of the glory of Canrif, and prevent what happened to two thousand troops of Roland from happening to the armies of each of their homelands.

Shrike was a practical man. He could see them all, the elite of the ambassadorial game: Abercromby and Evans, Gittleson, Bois de Berne, Mateaus and Syn Crote, the favored representatives of all the Orlandan and Sorboldian regents and benisons, each of whom had undoubtedly given their emissaries the same instructions. The representatives from Sorbold and the Nonaligned States were there, a few weeks ahead of the emissaries from the Hintervold and other distant lands. The two religious leaders of the continent, The Invoker of Gwyn-wood, head of the Filidic order, and the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, the leader of the Patriarchal faith who had dominion over the benisons, had each sent representatives as well.

The news of the Firbolg king had spread far and wide in a very short time. There was some wisdom in hanging back, listening to the scuttlebutt from the ones who had won the shoving match to be the first in. They would be patently unable to refrain from gossiping about the sights they beheld and the deals they made; there were, after all, bragging rights as much among ambassadors as there were among benisons and lords. The game of pecking order and self-importance did not interest Shrike. Information did.

In the end, Shrike knew, it was the entrée into Canrif that mattered. Any king crafty enough to engineer the defeat of a full brigade of Roland’s warriors, led by the late great Rosentharn, Knight Marshal, would have already arranged for the emissaries to see what he wanted them to see and take away with them the impression he wanted them to have. A better strategy, perhaps, was to learn these things by word of mouth, and use his time in the chambers of Ylorc to observe what might not be on the agenda. Even the smallest detail might be useful to his master. He did not expect to discover anything consequential, because Shrike was a practical man.

“I can’t stand this anymore, I am bored out of my gourd. Good night.” Jo stood and slid her dagger back into his wrist sheath.

“Go ahead,” said Achmed, checking the list. “There are only a few more.” He had entertained twenty-seven representatives from various heads of state and the church, only two of which he had wanted to see; his gourd was numb, too.

“You keep yer ’ands outta those presents, now,” warned Grunthor with a twinkle in his amber eyes. “ ’Is Majesty gets to look through ’em first.”

Jo scowled. “You know, I liked it a lot better before you were king, Achmed.” She strode out of the Great Hall and back to her chambers.

Achmed sighed. “So did I.”