Ruen had been the seat of the kings of Escator for centuries, and had grown wealthy because of the crown’s patronage and because it sat at the crossroads of the major trade routes for the realm. It nestled in the hollow formed by a low crescent of hills, and Garth’s first glimpse of the city was when he and his father rounded a bend in the road as it wound through the hills.
“It’s beautiful!” Garth gasped as he caught sight of Ruen spread out before him, and Joseph laughed at the awe on his son’s face.
“Its domes and minarets and belltowers hide a myriad sins, Garth. Keep a watchful eye to your purse when we enter its streets.”
But even the thought of pickpockets and cutpurses did not dim Garth’s wonder at the city. His head constantly twisting this way and that as they passed through the fortress-like gates and into Ruen’s bustle, Garth could not see enough at once. The people of this city dressed brighter, walked faster, talked louder and laughed more easily than the good folk of Narbon. The air was full, not only of the shouts of the city folk, but also of bells and music—the chimes of the minarets and towers rang out to mark the passage of the day and to call the faithful to prayers.
They took a room in an inn close to the city centre and only half an hour’s walk through the streets to the royal palace. Joseph sent word that he had arrived, and he and Garth spent the evening cleaning both themselves and their travel-stained clothes, trimming hair and, in Joseph’s case, his beard, and laying out the preparations that Joseph thought Cavor might require.
“He called me to his presence some eight years ago,” Joseph explained as he stared at the pots and flasks he had spread across his bed, trying to decide which ones to take.
“Why couldn’t his own physician treat him?” Garth sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, trying to rethread the laces through one of his boots.
Joseph selected a flask, stared at it, then sighed and put it back on the bed. “Only a few of our craft enjoy the use of the Touch, Garth. Cavor’s own personal physician is one of them.”
Garth nodded. Unlike his father, who cheerfully treated the common folk of Narbon for nominal payment, most physicians who could use the Touch charged such high prices only nobles could afford their services.
“But…” Garth prompted as his father continued to pick up flasks of medicines; a few he put to one side, the rest back on the bed.
“But Oberon Fisk is not very proficient at it. My guess is he can only employ the Touch spasmodically, and then only barely. Not,” Joseph paused, flask in hand, and grinned at his son, “that you’d know by his overrated opinion of himself.”
“Then you should be the king’s personal physician,” Garth said loyally, “if you’re better at the Touch than Oberon Fisk.”
Joseph’s grin faded. “He asked me, eight years ago, but I was happily settled in Narbon by then, you were doing well at school, and your mother did not want to leave her comfortable house. And besides,” he said, regarding his plain clothes ruefully, “I would not have cut a good figure at court.
“Now, as to why Cavor wants me, well, I can only wonder at the reason. But I would guess that it has something to do with the Manteceros.”
Garth frowned and put his relaced boot down on the floor. “The Manteceros?”
Joseph tapped his upper right arm. “His tattoo, that which is engraved on all kings of Escator. Normally it is done as a child, a babe in arms, but Cavor unexpectedly came to the throne in his mid-twenties…”
“And tattoos don’t take well at that age.”
“Yes,” Joseph said. “I’m glad to see you’ve listened to at least one thing I’ve said.”
Garth laughed at his father’s gentle humour. Both knew that Garth had to be told something only once for it to sink permanently into his mind.
“When I saw Cavor’s mark eight years ago it had festered. The ink for the royal tattoo is slightly different to that normally used for body engraving. It has properties that are…well, dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the royal colour is sky blue?”
Garth nodded impatiently.
“Well, the royal tattoo must be done in that colour. A babe takes it well, and heirs to the throne are normally marked soon after birth. But a grown man often reacts badly to it. Cavor has had constant problems since the mark was engraved on his biceps seventeen years ago. If the infection spreads too badly then Oberon is flummoxed. It needs a physician skilled in the Touch to heal it.”
“And you are the best in Escator,” Garth said.
“As you will be one day,” Joseph said, then grinned again. “Who knows, perhaps you will replace Oberon as the king’s personal physician in years to come.”
Garth laughed at the thought. “I will want to do more with my days than spend them with my hands wrapped about a king’s arm, father!”
If Garth had been moved to wonder by the noise and gaiety of Ruen, he was stunned into complete silence by the royal palace itself.
Its outer wall rose more than five windowless storeys from the street, a bare edifice of dark red stone, topped by prison-grey slate. Once they had been checked through the massive black iron gateways, they moved into another world; Garth completely forgot that a thriving and noisy city spread outside the red walls.
The walls surrounded a massive complex of buildings—all of the same red brick—and courtyards and gardens. Neatly manicured trees and hedges bordered walks that wandered by fountains and pools and riotous flowerbeds. Several gorgeously apparelled women strolled the walks, their eyes dark and seductive above lazy fans, cream and gold lapdogs gambolling at their heels.
A grey-uniformed servant led them silently down several of the paths, then into a dimly lit corridor. They halted and bowed as yet another lady passed them by, Garth’s eyes widening at both her silken dress and her exotic scent, then the servant handed them over to the king’s stout master of ceremonies in the ante-chamber behind the Throne Room.
“You will behave at all times with the utmost reverence,” the Master of Ceremonies said firmly, and fixed Garth in the eye.
Already uncomfortable in his best clothes and with nerves jolting about his stomach, Garth only nodded silently.
The Master of Ceremonies sniffed, and used the insides of his wrists to smooth back his already rigorously oiled iron-grey hair from his forehead. “You will bow when you enter, and again when you leave.”
“We understand,” Joseph said. He had instructed Garth as best he could last night, but it didn’t hurt to have his instructions reinforced by this man.
“And never turn your back on the royal person. And…ah!”
The Master of Ceremonies had suddenly spotted the small bag Joseph carried. “What have you got there?” His hands fluttered in alarm, and a guard rushed from his corner station.
“Only my powders and preparations,” Joseph said hastily, letting the guard inspect the bag.
The Master of Ceremonies subsided slightly, but he still eyed the two suspiciously. Oberon Fisk was his good friend, and the court physician deeply resented the fact that the king had felt the need to call such a rustic physician in to treat his mark. Fisk had stayed away from court today, refusing to meet Baxtor.
“Well,” he huffed. “I shall ascertain if the king will see you now, or if he has more important matters to attend to.”
His tone left Joseph and Garth in no doubt that as far as the Master of Ceremonies was concerned, anything would be of more importance than them.
But it appeared that Cavor was impatient to see Joseph Baxtor, for the Master returned within only a minute or two, his face red and his hands clenched slightly by his side.
“If you will,” he said stiffly, inclining his head, and Garth, unsuccessfully trying to suppress the nerves now careering wildly about his internal spaces, followed his father into the Throne Room.
The Throne Room was shaped in a great elongated oval, with the throne itself on a raised dais at the far end to which Joseph and Garth entered. The floor was of inlaid ivory and cherry wood, the walls hung with tapestries depicting heroic deeds and stitched in every conceivable hue, while great silver and crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling far above their heads.
Spiced incense drifted about the chamber in a faint mist.
About the walls stood sundry silent courtiers, diplomats, and ambassadors—all escorted by beautifully accoutred and coiffured women. Garth swallowed, and hoped he would not be asked to speak. In this company he felt as graceful as a carthorse mired in mud.