There was naught but a scream in the night, and at the break of dawn the guests of King Foxes, the Third of His Name, gathered in the court.
Queen Beatrix sat upon the throne, her eyes red and tired. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. Her back was bent as if burdened by some unseen weight, and her gaze was dull and unfocused. As the lords and servants who had arrived at the court filed into the room to learn of the terrible news, she looked at none of them in particular, and those who looked into her eyes as they passed felt as though she were looking through or past them. How else could she be expected to react to the news of her husband’s death, alone in a room of strangers?
There was a low murmur of hushed voices. Gossip couldn’t help itself but to fly, even in front of the grieving queen. Hellis held a hand out to silence the crowd. “Silence. Let our Queen speak to us.” Queen Beatrix nodded to him before addressing the gathering. She steeled herself.
“Last night, just past the witching hour, I awoke in my bed as my husband cried out in pain. I found myself staring into the eyes of a villainous assassin, who tore my husband’s chest open with a cruel blade and then vanished into the shadows before my eyes. I called for the guard, and though they gave chase they lost sight of him through the corridors of this castle.”
There was a ripple of gasps. Some were genuine, others were faked. News spread quickly in the castle, and it was no accident that knowledge of the King’s death had flown from one mouth to another. The kitchen wench, Natsume, had a particular fondness for chin wagging, and had spent the greater part of the morning developing conspiratorial, half-sane ideas on the identity of the murderer. She had accused Lord Zed as soon as they had heard the news, but then quickly shifted her accusation to one of the chefs, Smiral. This, of course, was offset entirely by the fact that Natsume would later accused Lord Jorick of being the killer after he ‘abused his pony’ as she told it. What she meant by ‘abused his pony’ was up for debate, though it was thereafter agreed that her opinions on things were generally ridiculous and hardly worthy of note.
“How did the killer escape, Your Grace?” Lady Seravee asked, her eyes wide and fearful. Beatrix gripped the arm rest of the throne. Her knuckles whitened.
“He didn’t.” There was another ripple of gasps. These were all genuine. “All the exits and entrances to the castle were sealed through the night for our security. Little did we know that a killer was already among us,” she continued.
“How do we know he didn’t escape in the meantime?” Lord Jorick asked, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He was a tall, broad man, having been a knight in his youth. The years wore on, though, and they had taken their toll. After his father had passed away and he had become the new Lord of Asterry, he had spent less and less time in armor and more and more time levying the King’s taxes and overseeing his estate. The king had always been fond of him for his dedication and due diligence.
“We know he did not escape for the fact that the exits and entrances have remained sealed, and no window has been breached. Unless our assassin may fly by some witchcraft,” there were some uneasy chuckles, “he and his accomplices are still among us. And I’m afraid to tell you that their work is unfinished.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Lady Bela, Lord Jorick’s wife. They stood side by side, and shared a brief glance between them after she asked her question. Queen Beatrix called to Hellis, who brought a letter to her.
“This letter, here, was dropped by the assassin after he fled the scene of my husband’s murder. It is a direct order from his employers, who have asked him to kill a number of those assembled here tonight. It isn’t specific enough to determine who his targets are, but we are all unsafe until this assassin and his accomplices are found and killed,” the queen said.
“Then we should leave,” Lord Grif said. “We should all walk out now, go home where he can’t track us.”
“If we leave, we’ll all be tracked down and killed eventually. If they can kill a king, these infiltrators have a very long reach. We must root them out and eliminate these threats here, while we still can,” Lord Jster replied in an even, self-assured tone. He was an unshakeable man, possessed of a cold, unflinching manner of speech and form. “Your grace, the fables of the smallfolk tell of an ancient, noble game that is played among rabbits in search of a wolf in their ranks. We find ourselves in a similar, very real situation.”
“Lord Jster, what do you suggest?” Lady Vena Sera asked. The Lady of Whitecastle, widowed two years after her husband perished in a jousting accident, was well known throughout the lands as a fair and just ruler. Queen Beatrix narrowed her eyes, staring at Jster long and hard.
“I second that question,” she said slowly. Lord Jster bowed his head in respect as she addressed him.
“My queen, this game is called Doubt.”
“I know it. You are suggesting that we gather ‘round and determine for ourselves who the killers are? So that we might lynch them by vote?” Lord Jster nodded curtly.
“With all due respect, your grace, it seems to me the most efficient manner in which we may weed out these insurgents within our ranks.”
“And if we vote wrongly? An innocent man or woman dies,” Lady Noxious said. “Lady” Noxious was not of the nobility at all, but was known throughout the castle as a master of swordsmanship and the art of war. She had trained some of the younger lords present in the arts of swordsmanship during her time, and she was well respected, if the butt of some jokes due to her sex.
“And efficient? Hardly,” Jorick growled. “Your grace, this proposal is outrageous. Innocents will die as we hunt for the killer,” he roared. Lord Jster shrugged.
“I trust in the judgment of my senses and those of my peers gathered here. If we cannot catch a killer among us, we make a very poor set of leaders indeed,” he said. There was discontent, but Lady Seravee came to support him.
“I agree, your grace,” Lady Seravee said. “It is fair enough, and best we stop these conspirators here than let them kill us one by one in our homes.” The queen nodded, pensive.
“If we shall vote on the lives of our peers, then we should vote on whether we pursue this course at all. A show of hands, please,” she said. Hands rose, many of them uneasily. When all was said and done, only Noxious, Bela, and Jorick remained in opposition. The others with reservations had followed the example of their betters or fellow lords.
“Then it is done. We vote at dusk,” the queen declared.
- -
After the funeral, a feast was prepared. In the kitchen, the common servants ran to and fro as they prepared courses and brought them out to the guests of the court. Whetfeather and Nargle returned to the kitchen, a stack of plates and cups in each of their hands. “Lord Zed requests more wine, Clirkus,” Whetfeather said to the cupbearer, and in half an instant Clirkus had poured another chalice’s worth of wine for the lord and brought it out.
“Lord Zed does like his wine,” Nargle commented dryly. Rilla, who was carving a flank of boar, shouted at them from across the kitchen.
“Nargle, can you bring this plate of grapes out?” the head chef asked. “Set it out by Lord Alphakoka if you could. He’s famished and says that only grapes will satisfy his hunger.”
“Fucking weirdo,” Nargle growled as she took the grapes.
The banquet hall was grand indeed, with a long, oaken table with room for all the lords. It was a somber affair, cheered only by the occasional hint of quickly-quashed laughter and the music of Tempest, the traveling minstrel. She was said to be one of the best in the kingdom, though to Nargle she seemed as good as any other tavern dwelling bard. As she sang a few bars of “The Lay of Ser Savien” she delivered the grapes to Alphakoka, sliding the silver platter onto the table and begging his pardon. Alphakoka summoned her with a finger as she turned to leave and gestured that she come closer.
“Nargle, was it?” he asked. She nodded. “I’d just like your opinion. Of these fine gentlemen, kitchen wenches, chefs, and all the like, one or more among us would see others dead. Who do you suspect?” Nargle took a deep breath as she formulated a response.
“I couldn’t say, my lord.”
“Come now, you can speak to me honestly. I shan’t tell a soul,” he said.
“I really couldn’t. Of all these men and women it strikes me as nothing less than shocking that one among them would kill our king,” she said. Alphakoka took a drink from his cup of wine.
“You’d be surprised. King Foxes was not so beloved as he might have believed. His tax policies were too progressive for many of these lords,” Alphakoka replied, and though Nargle could hear the words slur in his mouth she could tell that the wine had made him more forthcoming with certain truths.
“I’ll keep that in mind when I cast my vote, my lord,” she said, and hurried away as quick as her feet could carry her. Drunk lords tended to talk overmuch, and she wanted no part in whatever backlash would come of it.
- -
“You know there’s a feast going on, Drakel.”
Drakel lifted his eyes from the book and found himself speaking to Lord Herzinth. The castle library had long been his place of refuge, a safe haven from the hustle and bustle around the keep. He was a servant to King Foxes, or had been, but he had always found a few hours to spend pouring over old texts, usually concerning dragons. “I find myself disinclined towards the noise and troubles associated with such events. Affairs for gossip mongers.”
“And everyone is gossiping about the identity of this killer,” Herzinth replied, taking a seat across from him. “All of them, wily eyed lords and servants in the kitchen, are gossiping to each other and attempting to come up with some clues that could possibly point them in the right direction, but where are you? Here, all by your lonesome. It’s enough to make someone suspicious.”
“My loyalty to the realm is unquestionable, my lord,” Drakel replied. Herzinth smiled coyly.
“Oh, I’m not saying it isn’t, merely that others would disagree with you. Appearances are everything in this game, my friend. Let’s hope our names don’t come up at the vote tonight. Speaking of, we should probably get going. We have a lynching to attend.”
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Originally Posted by Beatrix
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