Why I Can't Have Nice Kings Read online

  I stood, mouth hanging open, for what felt like several minutes. Great—they were completely in character and art history majors, too. I guess it made sense for an art history major to be shoveling mud. There’s not a whole lot you can do with that degree but shovel mud . . . or write fantasy novels. That’s right: I was an art history major before I changed to the much more useful philosophy.

  I slowly edged away from the muck removal engineers, who were too absorbed in the higher-quality source of muck they had just discovered to notice me leaving.

  Fortunately, the fight in the smithy seemed to have broken up, and the reeve was standing alone in the center of the square. He appeared a tad dazed, but otherwise fine. Good. Maybe in that condition, he wouldn’t be as likely to stay in character.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Reeve, could you perhaps help me out?”

  “What’s the problem, oddly bespectacled one?”

  “I need some help getting out of here. Someone abandoned me in the woods. I need to call my assistant to get me out of here.”

  “That is quite the predicament. The only way we can communicate outside the village is by messenger. And since we are so near enemy lines, all of our messengers are being held back for military communications.”

  I breathed in a little. “Listen, I’m the creator of the world this town is based on. If you don’t help me, I’ll have my lawyer sue the lot of you.” I didn’t know if I could actually sue for anything that had happened so far, but I had found that when you really needed to get someone to do something they didn’t want to, it was best to be intimidating.

  The reeve paused and looked me over for a good minute. His face then turned bright red. “Blasphemer!” he said as he slapped me in a way that no man should ever slap another man. Is there a way a man should slap another man? Okay, granted, the Three Stooges get that to work, and I do love the Stooges, but outside of them, is there ever a situation where a man should slap another man?

  That, of course, made me angry. So, I slapped him back. (OK, I guess there is a time to slap another man.) Normally, I’m not the kind of person to resort to violence, being that it often ends terribly for me, but I figured I could take this skinny old man.

  He slapped me again.

  I slapped him with my right hand and then my left hand in quick succession.

  He slapped me on top of my head, then below the chin.

  I tried to poke him in the eyes, but he blocked it with his hand. (Great. He was a Stooges fan too.) “Ha!”

  I pushed him down on the ground and slapped him mercilessly.

  “Guards! This lunatic is attacking me. Hellllllp!”

  I decided I had won the exchange, but given that all of the actors seemed to be stuck in character, they would probably put me in the stocks (or whatever the equivalent of Renaissance fair jail was). If they stuck me in the stocks, I’d probably get pestered endlessly by fans about what color the horse was in chapter 2 of book 3 and what type of shoes the Atlians wore. I’d rather they threw rotten fruit at me.

  I got up off the reeve and ran around the nearest corner. Even if those guards were actors, they did not look friendly. Now, I might have been a little out of shape, but I had run cross-country in college a decade ago. I could still run pretty fast, even if it was for only about twenty yards.

  As I rounded the corner, I looked about frantically. I didn’t want to be the author who was famous for being arrested by his fans in costume. I had heard that “No publicity is bad publicity,” but being on YouTube in the stocks, pestered endlessly by fans, was not what I wanted to be known for. I could just picture the other authors snickering endlessly at me at every convention . . . forever. Not that I could blame anyone for laughing. It would be pretty funny if it happened to someone else.

  Fortunately—and I use this term very loosely—the muck wagon was heading out of town. So I did what I had to and dove into the pile of muck. If you’ve never dived into a pile of mud, I can tell you that it’s actually refreshing at first. That is, until you realize you’re in a pile of mud.

  As I sat in the pile, an idea came to me. Maybe this wasn’t a Renaissance fair. I’d seen a reality show set in a fantasy world once. Were they doing a season set in my world? In my naiveté, I hadn’t read the clauses at the end of my first contract and had given my publisher the media rights to my series. I’d thought they had to at least run any TV show ideas by me first, but perhaps not. Or maybe this was an elaborate hidden camera show, which would be very entertaining if it involved someone else. Either of those things would explain why everyone was so stuck on staying in character.

  You might be thinking I was inside a dream. If you’ve been thinking that, you’ve also probably been screaming at me for the last few pages, calling me an idiot and such. Oh, yeah? You’re the one screaming at a book. The book can’t hear you, and neither can I, the character in said book. Now, who’s the idiot?

  Anyway, as you’ll recall, I had fallen off a horse, which hurt. I’d also been slapped repeatedly, which also hurt. Perhaps you’ve heard that if you can feel pain, then you’re not in a dream. Well, I did, and a lot of it. Case closed.

  . . . It Was Cold in There

  As I sat in the cart, immersed in mud, I wondered why pigs enjoyed rolling around in it so much. It was kind of refreshing at first, but it got cold pretty quickly. Granted, it did appear to be autumn, which is pretty cool, temperature-wise, but it was also around noon, with the sun fully overhead and the sky cloudless.

  I decided to get out of the cart pretty soon, or I was likely to catch a cold; that, and I really had to pee. I have a pretty weak bladder when I get cold. Fortunately, a few minutes later, the cart came to a stop when a pair of riders passed in front of it on a crossroads.

  It was now or never. I crawled out of the mud and rolled to the ground, making an odd combination of a squishing sound and a thud, the kind of sound you might hear when you throw pudding against the wall. It’s a fun sound to hear, sure, still I don’t recommend it. I mean, for one thing, you’ll probably have to clean it up, and another, that’s wasted pudding. Pudding is delicious, even butterscotch.

  At least now that I was out of that damn town, I could find some regular non-actors who might be able to help. As I dusted myself off (no idea why; I mean, when you’re covered with mud, a little dust is the least of your concerns), I checked, and the driver hadn’t noticed the man-shaped pile of mud behind him. Apparently, I was safe for the time being. Now, I just had to find a lake or something to clean myself off in.

  The cart turned at the intersection and headed off in the opposite direction from the riders; north, I think it was. I thought I saw a lake straight ahead. I only thought so because, well, mud is hard to keep out of your eyes, especially when your hands are covered in yet more mud. A rainbow appeared above the lake. I took it as a sign that the worst had to be over and started toward it.

  “Look, a monster!”

  I turned to see that both riders had wheeled about. Great. They thought I was a mud monster. If you think about it, a monster made of mud isn’t really the scariest thing out there; I mean, unless you clean houses for a living. Cleaning up after a mud monster has to be pretty scary, but seeing as we weren’t near any white sheets or recently cleaned floors, as disconcerting as I must look, I wasn’t really all that threatening. Pathetic, maybe.

  The riders charged at me, swords drawn, with violence in their eyes. They were either really good actors, or they hadn’t liked my last book.

  I cowered and yelled something like, “I’m not a monster. I’m a human being!” or “Please, no. I’m too pretty to die!” I won’t comment on whether I peed myself or not.

  The riders stopped. “I’m not so sure that’s a monster.”

  “If it is, it may accost us on approach. We cannot hazard that.”

  The one on the right lowered his sword. “What if we ask it a few questions? Surely, a mud person would be baffled by a difficult question.”

  “How do you know that? Have yo
u ever chanced upon a mud person before?”

  The one on the left shook his head. “No, but I cannot imagine a person made of mud would be terribly intelligent.”

  “True, but he did just converse with us.”

  “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

  “I think I saw it urinate upward.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was to the right, but point taken.”

  Reasonably sure that they weren’t going to run me through, I stood up. “Hello, good sirs. I am an author, stranded in the woods . . .”

  “He is a rather polite mud monster, but what is an ‘author’?”

  “Probably a mud monster chieftain of some sort.”

  The actors were really getting on my nerves, and I was still covered in mud. Tired. Hungry. Muddy. Frustrated. I decided I’d had enough of them and took off toward the lake. Surely, two actors wouldn’t attack a famous author.

  “He must be seeking reinforcements!”

  The sound of hoofbeats drew steadily closer, but before the danger could register, the world went dark.

  Attack of the Thesaurus

  I awoke on a small rug inside a massive tent to an argument between the knights and another, better-dressed knight with long blond hair. I assumed I was the topic of discussion due to the over-enthusiastic gesturing and pointing in my direction. In my experience, when someone keeps pointing at you, it’s almost never a good thing. It usually ends with food being tossed at places that aren’t my mouth or the forced removal of clothing from embarrassing places. My head reminded me why I should always wear a helmet, and my ears decided it was time for a test of the emergency broadcast system.

  If you’re still convinced this was all a dream, I’d like to point out that I had just been knocked out. Have you ever heard of that happening in a dream? Didn’t think so. And if you’re still convinced this was a dream, please stop yelling at me for not realizing this was a dream. This is a book. I can’t hear you.

  Now, you’re probably saying, “But, Harry, what if you’re not in a movie or a TV show? What if you’re really in the actual world of Vyenra?” I think I’ve already established that this wasn’t a dream. I had pinched myself hard. It had hurt. Not a dream!

  “But what if Vyenra is real, and you were transported there by a magic bottle of peppermint Schnapps?” you might ask. I had already written five books in this damn world. I would have remembered being able to see it somehow. It wasn’t like some strange man had handed me an outline for this world in a dark alley or something. I always run screaming whenever strange men try to hand me anything in dark alleys. If you don’t have a rule like that, you really should. And also, what kind of hackneyed, uncreative writer would create a plot like that?

  The action in front of me seemed to be reaching its apex. Judging by the way the newcomer was yelling at the others, he was probably their superior, and not very happy that they’d brought me to him. I couldn’t imagine why, as I was always the life of the party. How did he know he wouldn’t like me? He hadn’t even talked to me.

  After a few minutes, their argument seemed to reach a conclusion, and the third knight approached me, carefully maneuvering around all of the trophies sprinkled around the tent. He opened his mouth, but the only thing I could hear were the words “cotton candy.”

  “My ears are still ringing, good knight. Give me a minute. It’s starting to clear.”

  “. . . fragrant . . . prison . . . unicorns . . . duct tape . . . waffles.”

  “I’m sorry, I only heard part of that. Could you repeat?”

  He gave me a disgusted look, reached down, and smacked me on the back of my head. Mud squirted out of both ears, and a little splattered on the bottom of his immaculate tunic. He glanced at one of the many mirrors in the tent and shook his head in disgust. For some reason, he seemed angrier.

  “Why is this muddy man ruining my best tunic?”

  “My lord, it’s a mud monster.”

  “What, exactly, is a mud monster?”

  “A monster made of mud.”

  “And what, exactly, is threatening about that? I mean, besides more work for the servants.”

  That was what I’d thought! Their leader was just like me.

  “But it’s still a monster, even if it does speak rather politely, my lord,” the first knight said.

  The leader and I slapped our palms against our foreheads simultaneously. However, this caused more mud to splatter onto his previously pristine tunic. He didn’t appear to care for that. You’d think my display of solidarity would have endeared me to him.

  “What kind of monster speaks politely, Axin?” the leader said, managing to glare at all three of us simultaneously. “What kind of monster speaks at all? And how many monsters have you even seen?”

  “Well, none, my lord, however I have heard of the dreaded butler vampires of Avringia. It is said that they serve you tea and give you a comfy chair before they suck your blood.”

  “There are no vampires, simpleton, and there is no Avringia, for that matter. Those are all folk tales meant to frighten children.”

  “The coopers will be glad to hear that, master,” the second knight said. “Coopers are always frightened of vampires. I think it’s because vampires always steal their arrows.”

  “Arrows?” the leader said. “Why would a cooper have arrows, Weel?”

  “Coopers produce arrows, sir. It is the purpose of their profession.”

  “That’s a fletcher, nitwit. Coopers make barrels.”

  Weel nodded like a dog. “You are correct, as always, master.”

  “As usual, you two are distracting me from my point. There is no such thing as monsters of any kind. This is only a man who happens to be covered in mud.”

  I wished he would hurry up, because I really had to go to the bathroom again. That mud was really cold. I raised my hand.

  The leader glared at me, and I thought I heard the fabric behind me start to catch fire. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Can’t you see I’m yelling at my lackeys, here? You can wait.” He turned back to his stooges. “I thought I had seen some moronic things from you two, but this, by far, is the worst.”

  “Even worse than when we attacked our own army?”

  “Yes, much worse.” He somehow managed to glare even harder. I was afraid his eyes might actually pop. I hoped he was going to see an anger management consultant after this was over.

  “Worse than when we ransacked the nunnery and the orphanage?” Weel said.

  Their master’s skin immediately changed back from thermometer red to its normal pale state. “That one was actually pretty good. You got some good candy, and you know I have a sweet tooth.”

  “They had lots of jelly beans,” Axin said.

  “I hate jelly beans! And to think you almost had me in a good mood again.”

  Axin and Weel proceeded to cower like nerds cornered by a football team. I wasn’t used to viewing that scene from the other side, so I let out a little giggle.

  The leader’s glare returned to me, and my bladder dutifully responded. Don’t laugh, reader, I have a condition. He was about to punch me, but he must have realized just how muddy I was and decided against getting even dirtier. He stared at me for a good minute, trying to decide how to punish me without getting anything more on his fine clothes. His eyes stopped and focused on my surprisingly clean right hand. I was sure he would twist my fingers back painfully, like the local kids when I try to take their candy. I wanted to pull the hand back but found my limbs frozen. He grabbed my ring finger, but, shockingly, did not pull my finger back. Instead, he did something much more painful: he took my grandfather’s ring.

  That ring was the sole reminder I had of the man who had raised me. My grandfather meant everything to me. He was the reason I had become a writer. How dare that actor take it from me? He was in my world, after all! I shook off my malaise, stood up, and furiously stuck out my finger. . . and then landed face-first back on the
rug.

  “For wasting my time, you two idiots will take him out of here and get him cleaned off. Then, you can figure out what to do with him. I still can’t remember why I put up with you two.” Our audience at an end, he returned to the nearest mirror and began to adjust his flawless blond hair while pointedly avoiding any glances toward the mud splotches on his clothes.

  Axin looked me over, clearly not sure what to do. Weel pointed, and they both grabbed an end of the rug under me and hauled me out of the tent. Knights were evidently pretty strong, even pretend ones. After we exited the tent, they headed toward a small pond. Before I could get my bearings and figure out whether it was the same pond as before, they tossed me in.

  Great. I was wet and cold yet again, though at least I didn’t have to pee anymore. The instant I was sure all of the mud was gone, I struggled to shore. While the pond wasn’t very deep—around three feet—I didn’t know how to swim.

  “My word! It really was a man under all that mud.”

  “The master is very wise, indeed. Now what do we do with him, Weel?”

  “I’m not sure. Who are you? And why were you covered in mud?”

  “I’m Harry Olson, a writer who seems to have been abandoned in the woods by my assistant.” I decided at this point to abandon the idea of trying to use a phone since all of these actors were obviously not going to give me one. Also, getting into another slap fight didn’t seem to be a good idea. I imagined these knights hit harder than the old, skinny reeve.

  “You’re a scribe, then,” Axin said. “You must be rather important to have an assistant. Which noble do you serve?”

  I wasn’t sure what time period from my books I was in. They could have set this show at any time. “What year is it, good sirs?”

  “I must have clouted you too vigorously,” Weel said. “It is the 2497th year of the Garandian calendar.”

  I should have known it was right after my last book. That made the most sense, but it also gave the writers of this show an easy time ruining what I had planned for future books.