Stephen King - The Eyes of the Dragon

Beson turned back. That turning was really all it took. Both of them knew who was in charge here. Beson had been beaten. When his prisoner told him to wait, he waited.

“I have something I want to say to you. It will be good for both of us if I do.”

Beson said nothing. He only stood and watched Peter warily.

“Tell them”-Peter jerked his head toward the door-"to close the spyhole

Beson stared at Peter for a moment, then turned toward the staring warders and gave the command.

The Lesser Warders currently jammed cheek to cheek into the opening, stood there staring, not understanding Beson’s blurred words… or pretending not to. Beson ran his tongue over his blood-flecked teeth and spoke more clearly, obviously with some pain. This time the peephole was swung shut and bolted from the outside… but not before Beson had heard the contemp-tuous laughter of his underlings. He sighed wearily-yes, they would have to be taught some hard lessons before he could go home. Cowards learned quickly, though. This prince, whatever else he might be, was surely no coward. He wondered if he really wanted to do any business at all with Peter.

“I want to give you a note to take to Anders Peyna, “Peter said. “You’ll come back for it tonight, I hope.”

Beson said nothing, but he was trying very hard to think. This was the most unsettling twist yet. Peyna! A note to Peyna! He had had a cold moment when Peter reminded him that he was the brother of the King, but it had been nothing compared with this. Peyna, by the gods!

The more he thought of it the less he liked it.

King Thomas might not much care if his older brother was roughed up in the Needle. The older brother had murdered their father, for one thing; Thomas probably didn’t feel much broth-erly love right now. And more important, Beson felt little or no fright when the name of King Thomas the Light-Bringer was invoked. Like almost everyone else in Delain, Beson had already begun to view Thomas with a certain contempt. But Peyna, now… Peyna was different.

To the likes of Beson, Anders Peyna was more frightening than a whole marching regiment of Kings, anyway. A King was a distant sort of being, bright and mysterious, like the sun. It didn’t matter if the sun went behind the clouds and froze you, or came out all hot and white to bake you alive-either way you only accepted, because what the sun did was far beyond the ability of mortal creatures to understand or to change.

Peyna was a more earthly being. The sort of being Beson could understand… and fear. Peyna with his narrow face and his ice-blue eyes, Peyna with his high-collared judge’s robes, Peyna who decided who would live and who would go under the headsman’s axe.

Could this boy really command Peyna from his cell here at the top of the Needle? Or was it only a desperate bluff?

How can it be a bluff if he means to write him a note r shall myself deliver?

“If I were King, Peyna would have served me in any way I commanded,” Peter said. “I am not a King now, only a prisoner. Still, not long ago I did him a favor for which I think he is very grateful.”

“I see,” Beson replied, as noncommittally as he could.

Peter sighed. Suddenly he felt very weary, and wondered what sort of foolish dream he was pursuing here. Did he really believe he was taking the first few steps on the road to freedom by beating up this stupid warder and then bending him to his will? Did he have any real guarantee that Peyna would do even the smallest thing for him? Perhaps the concept of a favor owed was only in Peter’s own mind.

But it had to be tried. Hadn’t he decided, on his long, lonely nights of meditation as he grieved for both his father and himself, that the only real sin would be in not trying?

“Peyna is not my friend,” Peter went on. “I won’t even try to tell you that he is. I’ve been convicted of murdering my father, the King, and I shouldn’t think I have a friend left in all of Delain, from north to south. Would you agree, Mr. Chief Warder Beson?”

“Yes,” Beson said stonily. “I would.”

“Nevertheless, I believe that Peyna will undertake to provide you with the bit of cash you are used to receiving from your inmates.”

Beson nodded. When a noble was imprisoned in the Needle for any length of time, Beson would commonly see that the prisoner got a better grade of food than the fatty meat and watery ale, fresh linen once a week, and sometimes a visit from a wife or a sweetheart. He did not do this free, of course. Imprisoned nobles almost always came from rich families, and there was always someone in those families willing to pay Beson for Be-son’s services, no matter what the crime had been.

This crime was of an exceptionally terrible nature, but here was this boy, saying that no less a one than Anders Peyna might be willing to provide the bribe.

“One other thing,” Peter said softly. “I believe Peyna will do this because he is a man of honor. And if anything were to happen to me-if you and several of your Lesser Warders were to rush in here tonight, and beat me in revenge for the beating I have given you, for example-I believe that Peyna might take an interest in the matter.”

Peter paused.

“A personal interest in the matter.”

He looked closely at Beson.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Beson said, and then added: “my Lord.”

“Will you provide me with pen, inkpot, blotter, and paper?” “Yes.”

“Come here.”

With some trepidation, Beson came.

The Chief Warder’s stink was tremendous, but Peter did not draw away-the stink of the crime with which he had been accused had almost inured him to the smell of sweat and dirt, he had discovered. He looked at Beson with a hint of a smile.

“Whisper in my ear,” Peter said.

Beson blinked uneasily. “What shall I whisper, my Lord?”

“A number,” Peter said.

After a moment, Beson did.

One of the Lesser Warders brought Peter the writing implements he had asked for. He gave Peter the wary look of an alley cat that has been often kicked, and skittered away before he could receive a helping of the anger that had been heaped on Beson’s head.

Peter sat down at the rickety table by the window, breath puffing out in the deep cold. He listened to the restless whine of the wind around the tip of the Needle and looked down at the lights of the city.

Dear Judge-General Peyna, he wrote, and then stopped.

Will you see who this is from, crumple it in your hand, and throw it into the fire unread? Will you read it and then laugh contemptuously at the fool who murdered his father and then dared to expect help from the Judge-General of the land? Will you, perhaps, even see through the scheme, and understand what it is I’m up to?

Peter was in a cheerier frame of mind that evening, and thought the answer to all three questions would probably be no. His plan might well fail, but it was unlikely to be foreseen by such an orderly and methodical man as Peyna. The Judge-General would be as apt to imagine himself donning a dress and dancing a hornpipe in the Plaza of the Needle at the full of the moon as he was to guess what Peter was up to. And what I’m asking is so little, Peter thought. That ghost of a smile touched his lips again. At least I hope and believe it will seem so… to him.

Bending forward, he dipped the quill pen in the inkpot and began to write.

On the following evening, shortly after nine had struck, Anders Peyna’s butler answered an unaccustomedly late knock and looked down his long nose at the figure of the Chief Warder standing on the doorstep. Arlen-that was the butler’s name-had seen Beson before, of course; like Arlen’s master, Beson was a part of the Kingdom’s legal machinery. But Arlen did not recognize him now. The beating Peter had given Beson had had a day to set, and his face was a sunset of reds and purples and yellows. His left eye had opened a little, but was still little more than a slit. He looked like a dwarvish ghoul, and the butler began to swing the door shut almost at once.