Christopher Moore - Fool

I grinned at the spot-faced squire. “Unlikely,” said I. “Edmund holds me in very high esteem and I him. There will be little time between compliments to discuss business.” I breezed by the young knight and into the chamber where Edmund was alone, sitting at a writing desk.

I said, “Thou scaly scalawag of a corpse-gorged carrion worm, cease your feast on the bodies of your betters and receive the Black Fool before vengeful spirits come to wrench the twisted soul from your body and drag it into the darkest depths of hell for your treachery.”

“Oh, well spoken, fool,” said Edmund.

“You think so?”

“Oh yes, I’m cut to the quick. I may never recover.”

“Completely impromptu,” said I. “With time and polish—well, I could go out and return with a keener edge on it.”

“Perish the thought,” said the bastard. “Take a moment to catch your breath and revel in your rhetorical mastery and achievement.” He gestured toward a high-backed chair across from him.

“Thank you, I will.”

“Still tiny, though, I see,” said the bastard.

“Well, yes, Nature being the recalcitrant twat that she is—”

“And still weak, I presume?”

“Not of will.”

“Of course not, I referred simply to your willowy limbs.”

“Oh yes, in that case, I’m a bit of a soggy kitten.”

“Splendid. Here to be murdered then, are you?”

“Not immediately. Uh, Edmund, if you don’t mind my saying, you’re being off-puttingly pleasant today.”

“Thank you. I’ve adopted a strategy of pleasantness. It turns out that one can perpetrate all manner of heinous villainy under a cloak of courtesy and good cheer.” Edmund leaned over the desk now, as if to take me into his most intimate confidence. “It seems a man will forfeit all sensible self-interest if he finds you affable enough to share your company over a flagon of ale.”

“So you’re being pleasant?”

“Yes.”

“It’s unseemly.”

“Of course.”

“So, you’ve received the dispatch from Goneril?”

“Oswald gave it to me two days ago.”

“And?” I asked.

“Evidently the lady fancies me.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Well, who could blame her, really? Especially now that I’m both pleasant and handsome.”

“I should have cut your throat when I had the chance,” said I.

“Ah, well, water under the bridge, isn’t it? Excellent plan, with the letter to discredit my brother Edgar, by the way. Went smashingly. Of course I embellished somewhat. Improvised, if you will.”

“I know,” said I. “Implied patricide and the odd self-inflicted wound.” I nodded toward his bandaged sword arm.

“Oh yes, the Natural talks to you, doesn’t he?”

“Curious, then. Why is that bloody great oaf still drawing breath, knowing what he does about your plans. Fear of ghosts, is it?”

For the first time Edmund let his pleasant and insincere grin falter. “Well, there is that, but also, I quite enjoy beating him. And when I’m not beating him, having him around makes me feel more clever.”

“You simple bastard, Drool makes anvils feel more clever. How bloody common of you.”

That did it. Pretense of pleasantness fell when it came to questions of class, evidently. Edmund’s hand dropped below the table and came up with a long fighting dagger. But alas, I was already in the process of swinging down hard with Jones’s stick end and struck the bastard on his bandaged forearm. The blade went spinning in such a way that I was able to kick the hilt as it hit the floor and flip it up into my own waiting weapon hand. (To be fair, that is right or left, whether it was the juggling or the pickpocket training of Belette, I am agile with either hand.)

I flipped the blade and held it ready for a throw. “Sit! You’re exactly a half-turn from hell, Edmund. Do twitch. Please do.” He’d seen me perform with my knives at court and knew my skill.

The bastard sat, cradling his hurt arm as he did so. Blood was seeping through the bandage.

He spat at me, and missed. “I’ll have you—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” said I, brandishing the blade. “Pleasant.”

Edmund growled, but stopped as Kent stormed into the room, knocking the door back on its hinges. His sword was drawn and two young squires were drawing theirs as they followed him. Kent turned and smashed the lead squire in the forehead with the hilt of his own weapon, knocking the boy backward off his feet, quite unconscious. Then Kent spun and swept the feet out from under the other with the flat of his sword and the lad landed on his back with an explosion of breath. The old knight drew back to thrust through the squire’s heart.

“Hold!” said I. “Don’t kill him!”

Kent held and looked up, assessing the situation for the first time.

“I heard a blade clang. I thought the villain was murdering you.”

“No. He gave me this lovely dragon-hilted dagger as a peace offering.”

“That is not true,” said the bastard.

“So,” said Kent, paying particular attention to my readied weapon, “you’re murdering the bastard, then?”

“Merely testing the weapon’s balance, good knight.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No worries. Thank you. I’ll call you if I need you. Take that unconscious one with you, would you?” I looked at the other, who trembled on the floor. “Edmund, do instruct your knights to be pleasant toward my ruffian. He is a favorite of the king.”

“Let him alone,” grumbled Edmund.

Kent and the conscious squire dragged the other one out of the chamber and closed the door.

“You’re right, this being pleasant is the dog’s bollocks, Edmund.” I flipped the dagger and caught it by the hilt. When Edmund made as if to move, I flipped it again and caught it by the blade. I raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “So, you were saying about how well my plan had worked.”

“Edgar is branded a traitor. Even now my father’s knights hunt him. I will be lord of Gloucester.”

“But, really, Edmund, is that enough?”

“Exactly,” said the bastard.

“Uh, exactly what?” Had he already set his sights on Albany’s lands, not even having spoken with Goneril? Now I was doubly unsure of what to do. My own plan to pair the bastard with Goneril and undermine the kingdom was the only thing keeping me from sending the dagger to his throat, and when I thought of the lash marks on poor Drool’s back my hand quivered, wanting to loose the knife to its mark. But what had he set his sights on?

“The spoils of war can be as great as a kingdom,” said Edmund.

“War?” How knew he of war? My war.

“Aye, fool. War.”

“Fuckstockings,” said I. I let the knife fly and ran out of the room, bells jingling.

As I approached our tower, I heard what sounded like someone torturing an elk in a tempest. I thought that Edmund might have sent an assassin for Drool after all, so I came through the door low, with one of my daggers at the ready.

Drool lay on his back on a blanket, a golden-haired woman with a white gown spread around her hips was riding him as if competing in the nitwit steeplechase. I’d seen her before, but never so solid. The two were wailing in ecstasy.

“Drool, what are you doing?”

“Pretty,” said Drool, a great joyous, goofy grin on him.

“Aye, she’s a vision, lad, but you’re knobbing a ghost.”

“No.” The dim giant paused in his upward thrusting, lifted her by her waist and looked closely at her as if he’d found a flea in his bed.

“Ghost?”

She nodded.

Drool tossed her aside and with a long shuddering scream ran to the window and dove through, shattering the shutters as he went. The scream trailed off and ended with a splash.