David Cook: King Pinch

"We do this to save Ankhapur," Lissa announced to no one except perhaps herself. She spoke with the virtuous certainty that comes upon the sinner determined to redeem herself. "There will be no turning back or backsliding now. Understand, little one?"

From inside the bloated plaster head came a sour grumble that lapsed into silence, but the halfling kept pace with the others.

The entrance to the Great Hall was thick with the royal guard, loyal soldiers standing in rows like overdressed mannequins. Pinch's teeth ground like millstones as they fell into the line of guests passing through the doors. A guard captain briefly scanned each reveler as he or she passed. With his keen scent for the law, Pinch spotted others who were doing a miserable job of being inconspicuous: several servants who lingered in the foyer with too little to do, and a robed "guest" who lounged in the hall. Probably hired warriors and a mage, and probably loyal to Vargo, just in case he needed to force his ascension. Pinch had not forgotten Iron-Biter's suggestion to take the crown by force if necessary.

Still, the lot looked distinctly uncomfortable, no doubt because their commander, Iron-Biter, hadn't shown. That pleased Pinch, thinking of the consternation that must be going through Vargo's ranks because their lord's right-hand man had failed to appear.

The captain, seeing only another group of celebrants, waved them by with hardly a glance. Their ill-fitting outfits were beyond notice in the garish crowd that surrounded them. There were mock medusas, gold-festooned dwarves, even a hulking lizard man clutching a goblet in its taloned hand. Pinch judged that, from the interest the lizard showed in the ladies, many of whom had dressed to reveal and not disguise, that this guest was an enterprising wizard with a polymorph spell and not a true emissary of that reptilian race.

Once past the guards, the three slipped easily through the packed crowd. Everyone was here and everyone was gay. The rogue figured he could make a year's profit from the jewelry that dripped from the arms, necks, ankles, and ears of those around him. With so much temptation at hand, Pinch kept a wary eye on his small friend, although the halfling's oversized plaster head seemed an effective restraint.

When they finally squeezed into the Great Hall, past the ballrooms where the dancers turned to stately pa-vanes, past the tables creaking with roasts and pastries, and past the choke in the hallway, every head was craned for a view of the four princes on their thrones. Raised up on a broad dais, the four looked through their masks upon the crowd with the unconcealed habits of their natures radiating in their very poses. Vargo, foremost of the lot, awaited the ceremony with keen expectation, confident that he would be supreme no matter what the outcome. Throdus and Marac sat in their places with distinct unease, well cautioned of their brother's plans and perfectly aware of their own weakness to oppose him. Bors always loved the festival. The bright colors, music, and food appealed to his childish spirit. He laughed and giggled in his seat, but the importance of the occasion was lost on him.

It wasn't hard to spot their quarry. Cleedis-or rather, not-Cleedis-stood behind Bors, playing the part of the faithful retainer. Manferic, inside Pinch's shell and cloaked as the old chamberlain, did a masterful job of masquerading as his former servant. The princes wore masks, but the thing posing as Cleedis disdained any. Against the parti-colors of the festival, he was a somber specter of the occasion.

Pinch tipped his beak to Lissa and hissed, "Close enough?" indicating the spell she needed to use.

She shook her head and pointed to one of the pillars about two-thirds toward the front. "There!" she shouted back.

The black raven nodded his understanding and waved a cloaked wing for his small assistant to follow. Plunging straight forward toward the center of the dais was impossible. The throng was too thick and there was no room to operate, although Pinch wasn't quite sure what they were going to do anyway. He knew Lissa would cast her spell, but after that everything was a spin on the wheel of fate, the cruel dictum of Lady Tymora.

As they shouldered their way to the thinner flanks of the crowd, a bell pealed over the roar of the throng, its resonance magically amplified to seize the attention of the onlookers. The roar faded to a babble as a column of Red Priests entered from the back of the hall, forcing the host apart before them. The acolytes at the head held forth the banners of their sect, followed by the bearers of incense and the cantors. After these was the object of all attention, a lone priest bearing the Cup and Knife, closely followed by the Hierarch Juricale, his thick beard oiled and curled. Temple warriors flanked him on all sides, not that there was much threat to his eminence. They were a display of his might to anyone who needed to know.

Seeing the false artifacts, Pinch rapped the halfling's encasement and asked, "Do you have them?" The oversized head bobbed affirmatively while the little hands pointed to the bag at his waist.

The holy entourage moved with stately ease through the hall; Pinch and company did not. By the time they reached the pillar Lissa had indicated, the procession had reached the dais. The hierarch held the relics aloft and invoked the blessing of the gods. Immediately, Vargo rose to announce his claim.

"I am Vargo, son of Manferic III, grandson…"

"Close enough?" Pinch asked the priestess again.

She nodded and as best as possible reached beneath her skirts to produce a tightly rolled scroll. "When Maeve told me of Manferic, I brought some help. It's a scroll to dispel his magic." She tapped the paper meaningfully.

"And if that doesn't work?"

"I've another one memorized, just in case. Should I try it now?"

Pinch shook his head, almost hitting the onlookers in front of him with the great beak. "Not yet. Wait for a distraction."

Within moments, Pinch almost gave the word to go. Juricale presented the relics to Throdus, but the prince refused to rise. A wave of amazement soared through the crowd.

"Pinch, what's happening?" Sprite demanded, unable to see the thrones.

"Throdus has declined the test," the rogue answered with keen interest. Apparently Vargo's threats were working.

"Can he do that? What if he were the chosen one?"

"I don't know. It's his right, but no one's ever done it."

Bewildered, Juricale continued on to Marac. He, too, remained firmly in his seat. By now the audience hummed with speculation.

"Vargo's spread his threats well," the regulator said in admiration.

Juricale was visibly relieved when Bors stood to make his claim. The power of his temple resided in the ceremony, so any precedent that ignored it threatened his job. Pinch was amazed that Bors managed to recite the words of lineage, although it could have been done with a little magical aid from Manferic himself.

Now there were two candidates. Expectations mounted as the Hierarch returned to Vargo. Pinch held his hand lightly over Lissa's arm, ready to give the signal. If anything was to happen it must happen soon.

Vargo seized the knife, proclaimed the words, and boldly pricked his thumb. Carefully the underpriests came forward and caught the ruby drops in the golden cup. Another carefully poured a measure of wine. Swirling the two, the Hierarch returned the cup to Vargo's hand.

"Drink now, so that all may see if you are Ankhapur's true lord." The priest's voice boomed over the silent crowd.

Vargo raised the Cup high and then set it to his lips. A collective gasp seized the audience as everyone waited for the sign.

Nothing happened.

With one breath a sigh of mass tension blew like a wind across the hall. Carried on it were the faint grumbles of those whose hopes were lost and the smug pleasure of those who'd won. Bors, they knew, would be the rightful king. Others, wiser perhaps, looked to the doors, mindful that what Vargo could not have by right he would claim by sword.