(eng) Michael J. Sullivan - Riyria Chronicles 03 by The Death of Dulgath

Author:The Death of Dulgath [Dulgath, The Death of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE PAINTING

Christopher Fawkes was the empathetic sort. While he had a long list of enemies—an actual written list he kept in the lining of his doublet—he could generally find something about each person to respect or at least pity. This annoying predisposition toward understanding and compassion frequently robbed him of the unencumbered enjoyment of victory. A notable exception was the King of Maranon. Lord Fawkes was certain the only reason for King Vincent Pendergast’s existence was to give Christopher something to hate without reservation.

Vince the Vile—as Christopher referred to him in the safe confines of his own head—embodied everything bad in the world sewn up in one awful package. He was short, which was unforgivable for a monarch, and also ugly, which was unforgivable for anyone. He took after the Pendergast line, with a huge, hooked nose hanging off his face. His deep-set eyes hid beneath a ledge of bone so wide that a stick of chalk could rest there. He had gaps in his teeth, not just between the center two like any normal monstrosity, but between all of them.

Why Vince the Vile didn’t grow a beard over his pockmarked skin remained a mystery, unless growing hair proved just as unmanageable as running his kingdom. His Majesty’s fingers were fat and stubby, little sausages complete with thin, stretched casings. The only difference? Christopher had never seen so much hair on sausages. The king’s fingers weren’t the only fat part of the man. Vince the Vile wouldn’t be able to wear a barrel without a cooper letting it out a stave or two. Perhaps the king’s worst aspect was his habit of spitting and his utter lack of skill at it. Vincent’s face was usually wet with saliva, and a gob of phlegm often decorated his chin. His personality matched his appearance.

“Chrissy?” the king said when spotting him in the courtyard. “I’m surprised to see you in Dulgath.”

“Your Majesty.” Christopher bowed with a smile on his lips as he pictured unleashing a quarrel into the fat, spittle-dripping crown-stand. Christopher had the arbalest—what Knox called the huge crossbow—hidden as best he could behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Being the size of a bass violin, the weapon wouldn’t fit under the bed. Didn’t fit behind his wardrobe, either. The wingspan of the prod—what Knox called the bow part—stuck out on either side. He had put a sheet over it, making it look like a midget ghost with outstretched arms.

The morning after he’d sent the two thieves to Manzant, Christopher noticed that the ivy on the west tower had been removed. The gardener had ripped it down, by order of the countess, the evening he and Payne were in Brecken Dale. Either she was a fortune teller or the thieves had warned her. Why they would care, the lord didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

Christopher had asked Knox to find a heavy crossbow and hoped the shooting-from-a-distance idea hadn’t also been thwarted. Seeing the arbalest with its steel prod, its hand crank, and its three-quarter-inch-thick ash quarrels, he couldn’t imagine anything stopping it.

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