Return to Canifis

“How?” Jack chirped innocently.

Kara remained silent, staring at the young boy. Then she shrugged.

“Very well, Arisha. You are right. As usual. Pia and Jack will return to Varrock with us.” The two dark eyes fell on Pia. “I shall take your case to the King himself, and if he accepts-and provided there are no other serious crimes you have committed-you will both enter my service. Neither of you will ever steal anything again.”

Jack grinned, and Pia forced a smile to her face.

No other serious crimes, she thought. How long then before I am found out, until I have to run again?

But for now, Pia hugged her brother tightly.

Never a rope!

7

Castimir’s face burned and his head ached.

He wore the ceremonial robes of his order, heavier than his normal garments, with wide cuffs and uncomfortable shoulder pads. Gone were the unsightly pouches on his belt, although he still kept a few runes in his pocket. He had learned painfully never to be without them.

Though they are not easy to get at, he mused irritably. It’s not at all practical, nor comfortable.

He stood with several of the off-duty palace guards and soldiers of Misthalin who had insisted that he join them in a drink of fellowship. They had been joined by Gideon Gleeman, the jester Castimir had met on the road to Varrock. All around them clusters of revellers drank and chattered and laughed.

As the church bell to the east chimed four times, he shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand and looked up to the palace’s easternmost outer wall. Upon the parapet, built up from the stone and protruding forward on wooden scaffolding in order to extend its width, was a purple-coloured canopied box, overlooking the bailey. In its foremost rank was a high yellow chair which Castimir knew was meant for King Roald. Already many nobles had gathered, and he noted Lord Despaard seated next to the man Lady Anne had named as Lord Ruthven.

I have only had two drinks, yet in this heat it is enough to make me feel drunk. I must sit down, get in the shade, and have some water.

He strode forward, making for the score of guards who stood in a line below the royal box. As an honoured guest of King Roald, he-like his friends-had been offered prominent seats from which to better experience the festivities.

“Come come, Castimir!” The jester’s voice pierced the hubbub of the crowds. “You’re not getting away quite so soon. Here, have another…”

Gleeman’s words provoked a cheer from the nearby listeners.

“You drink it for me, Gideon,” the wizard said as cheerfully as he could manage. “I need to be on my best behaviour today. As you can see, I am even dressed up in my ceremonial attire.”

“But I cannot. I dare not,” the jester said in mock seriousness. “I am to dance upon a high rope this afternoon. Would you have me fall and break my neck? Now, mighty wizard, you would be doing your new friends a dishonour by refusing them another toast.”

Castimir’s new friends groaned loudly to emphasise the jester’s point.

Yet beneath their drunken ramblings, they are afraid, Castimir knew. These slayings and kidnappings have them worried, and already today I have heard more mention of this prophecy that has everyone whipped into a frenzy.

Suddenly another player entered the fray.

“He cannot participate, Gideon,” William de Adlard said as he strode forward. “His presence is required by royal decree. Come, Castimir, before these wicked men lead you astray.”

The wizard bowed quickly-to the cheers of the party-and followed William through the boisterous throng. They passed a myriad of entertainments and once, when a fire-breather risked charring them, Castimir lifted his staff threateningly. From its knotted tip a red glow reached outward in all directions, warming those in its glare. Humbled, the fire-breather bowed and backed away, to the laughter of his spectators.

The guards parted for them at the bottom of the scaffold, and they ascended the stairs to the parapet. Castimir’s stomach rumbled.

“I am hungry, William,” he said over the din. “Do I have time to eat?”

But his question went unheard as the crash of metal and the neigh of a horse signalled the end of another joust. Men and women cheered as Castimir followed William’s gaze to the lists.

“That is the last for now, until the King comes,” William commented. Suddenly he paled. Looking down from their elevation, they could clearly see the fallen knight over the heads of the crowd below. Blood ran from the armoured man’s throat, for his enemy’s lance point had splintered and penetrated his leather gorget. Still he held his shield, its crest a silver sword on a dark background. From all sides men rushed to help him as the ladies of court looked on with blanched faces.

Castimir caught sight of Lady Anne. She alone looked unmoved by the man’s injury. Suddenly she laughed and Castimir saw her speak, her circle of friends craning their heads to listen. One of them, a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a gap between her two front teeth, gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, while others stifled inappropriate giggles.

It made Castimir feel slightly unwell.

When he turned back, he saw how William’s gloved hands gripped the wooden rail, and he noted the nobleman’s sickly face.

“Are you all right, Lord William?” the wizard asked.

“It’s these jousts, Castimir. Theodore participated in them when he first came to Varrock, much to his credit. Today, however, he has decided to play at melee with the most dangerous men in the realm.”

“You do not care for such sport?”

William’s eyes focused grimly on the injured man.

“That man will likely die today, Castimir,” he said. “Such a wound I doubt will heal, and Sir Prysin will have lost his first born for no reason other than pride. It is no sport. It is the play of madmen.” Then he gathered himself. “But come, the King will arrive shortly and we must be in our places for him.”

From the purple-draped box the view was very different. Smells and sounds rose up to tease Castimir’s aching stomach. Smoke and cooking, musicians and singing, all the happy mayhem of a grand revel. But not all was festive, for along the ramparts and on the turrets of the palace towers the wizard could see dozens of archers.

It must make the nobles feel rather safe up here, he supposed. If the crowd began to riot, they could flee along the walkways to the safety of the palace as King Roald’s archers turned each reveller into a hedgehog. They could even close the gates to prevent them from escaping back out into the city.

Shaking off such thoughts, Castimir looked for Theodore. His eyes crept to the far side of the bailey, where a stage had been built against the inner wall of the palace, on which the popular play The Betrothal of Glarial was being performed. Not far from the stage he recognised Theodore by his squire’s armor. A group of his men-all in white-were preparing themselves to fight against an equal number of Varrock’s finest knights, their weapons blunted to avoid fatalities.

Good luck my friend. Make us all proud.

He gazed up from the bailey to the southern parapet, where a small group of women stood, fussed over by Father Lawrence. Castimir had been introduced to him that afternoon.

He behaves like an anxious hen.

“I see you have spied the debutantes,” William said, nodding in their direction. “They are mostly women of high birth who have come of age and are to be introduced to society, though a few are of merchant families and lesser gentry. I am told it is a very nervous occasion for them all.”

Castimir peered at them. One, a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones, clearly seemed fraught. She wore a red toque and an olive-green dress, her headpiece making her stand out from the others. William saw her, as