Nobody's Son by Sean Stewart Read Free Book Online Page A

Keep. Across the room the King froze, halfway out of his chair. Beside him the Queen’s fleshy face sagged in shock. Her eldest daughter recoiled, her second gasped.
    The youngest princess grinned.
    On the King’s other side his two councillors, gaunt Anujel and stout Vultemar, glowered in outrage. Behind the throne Sir William, the King’s champion, looked on, greying eyebrows raised with interest.
    Sweetness murmured its grim enchantments, freezing the ladies and gentlemen of the Court who stood between Mark and his King. Whole village wouldn’t pawn one lady’s dress or one Jack’s cloak and boots , Mark thought, stuck between awe and anger. The men were dressed soldier-style, all epaulets and medals and braid. The monstrously thin women wore hoop-skirts with rigid hems just below their knees: They look like butter churns wi’ legs , Mark thought sourly. But you must admit that all the girls are handsome, and all the fellows pretty .
    “Thanks for your attention,” he growled.
    Shielder’s Mark was not a pretty young man. His brown hair was shaggy and unwashed. His long narrow jaw was covered with black stubble that looked like a boy’s bad first beard. His hands were too hard; his fingernails were blunt and dirty. His cloak was travel-stained; the leathers on his boots were parting from their soles. And frankly, he stank.
    He bowed with a flourish and raised his magic blade above his head, so that every corner of the room was filled with its keening, crying song. “This is Sweetness, greatest sword of grandfather days. I picked it from between Stargad’s bones in the Red Keep, where he lies. I’ve broke the Ghostwood’s spell, and come to claim my reward. I’ve had two weeks walk, little food, less sleep, and no thanks. I’ve spent half the day trying to get past your bloody doormen and stewards and under-ministers of this and bloody that, and I’m sick of being polite.
    “I will be heard, and I will get what’s owed me! If any man doubts my word, he’s welcome to come wi’ me to the Ghostwood, and look for himself.”
    He dropped his sword-point, and the spell was broken; everyone started jabbering at once.
    At a glance from the King, Vultemar bellowed for silence.
    Sinking slowly into his throne, His Munificence Astin IV, his spare frame draped in the royal black, studied Mark with a profound lack of enthusiasm. “And do you know those harsh and rigid medicines the Law prescribes in case your claim be proven false?” He nodded at Sir William, who alone among the men in the room was plainly dressed, in brown silks without lace or military honours. “In such a case would we our champion ask to chastise your impertinence.”
    “If I were lying, he could try,” Mark growled. “But can you doubt your ears? There’s only one sword as sings: Sweetness, that was lost in the Ghostwood as everyone knows.”
    Eyes glanced across the chamber; whispers twittered from every corner. Mark looked slowly around the room, feeling dirty and wild and fierce. Like songbirds under a hawk’s shadow, courtiers cringed beneath his gaze.
    Sir William, the King’s champion, dropped his hand from his sword-hilt. “The boy speaks sooth.”
    Astin IV turned in astonishment. “William! Are you mad? One thousand years has darkness lain upon that Wood, and spilled its gloom upon our hearts, a tristeful tributary, fouling with its melancholy spring the shining Sea that is our kingdom. Stargad tried to break this spell, and thumb-less Fhilip; Silverhand and countless others. Can that blot not even Aron could erase have now been lifted, by,”—the King waved an angry hand at Mark—”By a ragged cloak and pair of mildewed boots?”
    Sir William shrugged. “One sword only ever sang, Your Majesty. I must believe my ears.”
    Mark’s fierce elation drained away before the older man’s level gaze; he felt like a boy, and a bragging boy at that. Sir William gave him the ghost of a smile. “Beside this, I am a fair judge of