Why I Can't Have Nice Kings Read online

  I decided to pick a minor noble who had been murdered in my last book. “I was in service to the Count of Minestro, and I was covered in mud because I ran from the assassins who murdered his whole house. My assistant pushed me down in the mud and abandoned me to save himself.”

  “That’s a terrible story, indeed.” Weel handed me a towel.

  Since they were being really nice to me, I thought I would give them a little advice so my fans wouldn’t tear them apart at the next convention. “Those blue sashes you two have are the wrong shade. The color of the Garandian Empire is royal blue, and yours are more powder blue.”

  “My mother gave them to us,” Axin said.

  Weel smiled. “Do you need passage back home? We might be able to secure that after the next battle.”

  While being on a battlefield might be kind of neat, it was probably better to avoid that, as filming a battle had to be really expensive. If this was a TV show, it might be better to keep the cost down, as I might have a financial stake in it, after all. Also, I might get hurt in the middle of a battle. They were very chaotic, even when they involved trained stuntmen, and I wasn’t part of the stunt coordination.

  “Yes, that would be fantastic.”

  Axin laughed. “Well, it sucks to be you, then.”

  “The master will love it when we tell him of this,” Weel said. “This imbecile actually believed me.”

  “I wouldn’t tell him yet. He’s in a pretty foul mood.”

  Weel turned toward me. “I hate scribes.”

  Axin put his hand on Weel’s shoulder. “Not this again. It’s not the fault of every scribe out there that you were fired from your last job.”

  “My writing was brilliant. How dare they fire me?”

  “I read some of it, and it was not. You didn’t even write what they told you to.”

  Weel grimaced. “They couldn’t handle a little creativity.”

  “You were supposed to be writing history.”

  “Well, history is dull. I thought I would spice it up and add some flair.”

  Axin shook his head. “You can’t teach children that King Numerious conquered Upper Tynton with his army of reindeers and barbers.”

  “It’s very memorable.”

  “Yes, but there was no King Numerious, Upper Tynton, or an army of reindeers and barbers.”

  “But the Thousand-Year Peace was boring. No one died in battle,” Weel said.

  “That’s still not as bad as when I gave you a Word of the Day calendar for your birthday.”

  Now I knew why some of my fans thought it was a bad idea to have the printing press invented hundreds of years too early.

  “The calendar made me sound so much more intellectual.”

  Axin crossed his arms. “No, you use most of the words wrong.”

  “Imbecilic!”

  “That’s what I mean. You really need to learn the difference between adverbs, adjectives, and nouns.”

  “Philistine!”

  “Yes, there are plenty of those around here,” I said. “They’re right behind the English and the Romans and all those other people who do not exist in Vyenra.”

  I guessed the gift of a large vocabulary didn’t include an appreciation of sarcasm, because Weel hit me in the head with his gauntlet. My head was already very sore. I thought I might have a concussion.

  “What shall we do with the scribe?” Weel said.

  “We could put him with the other one.”

  “And what, pray tell, for?”

  “So . . . they could write faster?”

  Weel raised his hand. “Ohhh. Ohhh! I’ve just had a masterstroke of a sentiment.”

  “Why can’t you just speak normally, Weel? You’re trying too hard. Honestly.”

  “By virtue of my having vocabulary in the copious does not negate my sentiment.”

  “My mother taught grammar, and you’ve made her roll over in her grave.”

  “While I know my opinion doesn’t matter much to you two, I’m with Axin on this one,” I said. “I think you just gave a few dozen teachers a heart attack.”

  “You are quite factual in your perception that I do not cognate your theorem,” Weel said.

  “Anyway . . . Weel, what was your idea?”

  “We shall have them engage in a melee betwixt themselves!”

  Axin nodded. “Finally, a good idea. We could give them pens, too.”

  “No, no. They should fight, not write.”

  “They could fight with the pens.”

  “Don’t you mean quills?” I said.

  Axin rolled his eyes. “No, we’re not into any kinky stuff. No one wants to see you two tickling each other. You can do that on your own time. We want blood, and pens would make the fight last longer.”

  “This is my most ingenious concept in eternity!” Weel exclaimed.

  Dyfantus the Big, Dumb Stupid-Head and Friends

  They led me a short distance away to a nice tall oak. The tree had leaves at that perfect autumn red that’s almost purple, with smooth, flawless bark, and . . . you know what? It was a tree. You don’t really need me to describe a tree for you, unless you’re one of those weirdos who gets off on trees, in which case, this really isn’t the right book for you. The important thing about this tree was the other man leashed to it.

  If I had to fight him, I felt pretty good about my chances. With his ghostly complexion, I figured the sun would likely fell him before I could. I might choose sunscreen as my weapon—that way, I could win the fight but still feel good about saving his life. Or, if that didn’t work, I could always use my classic move and steal his glasses. He seemed too absorbed in taking notes on his imaginary pad to notice our arrival.

  Axin tied me around the waist and leashed me to the tree like an expert. He had clearly gotten his knot-tying merit badge, so I gave him the secret Boy Scout hand signal. In response, he gave a me a dirty look and hit me in the stomach. As I doubled over, I pondered whether he had missed the signal or hadn’t recognized it. Was the signal specific to my old troop? The last time I had given it to other scouts, I’d gotten hit in the stomach, too. Maybe it meant “please hit me in the stomach” in sign language.

  “We’ll let you two get acquainted while we tell the master of our idea,” Axin said. “This might even make him forget about the whole mud monster fiasco.”

  “Expressly!” Weel said.

  “When we get back, I’m burning that calendar.”

  “You must nullify that apprehension, my compatriot.”

  “Tying me to a tree is a really crappy way to keep me from leaving your stupid show,” I said.

  I thought they were out of earshot until Weel ran back and punched me in the gut. I really hoped Axin found both the calendar and a big sock to stuff in his mouth, but I kept the last part in my head and made sure not to yell it this time.

  I stood up and brushed myself off. I was wet, and now both my head and my stomach hurt. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t untie the knot Axin had put in my rope. On the bright side, my companion didn’t seem to be much of a threat. A butterfly was furiously circling his head, and when he attempted to swat it away, he tripped over a big root. The butterfly flew a short distance away and seemed to dance in victory.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “Do you have to gloat, you winged terror? Just because your species is called a monarch does not mean you need to act the part. You may have won this round, but I will win the next.” He quickly stood up and renewed his assault, but the butterfly stayed out of reach. Either it felt it had nothing more to prove, or it was too absorbed in normal butterfly thoughts to care. I’m far from an expert on butterfly psychology, though if I ever decide to switch careers, that might be a great scam.

  “Come back here, you tiny bully. I’m not finished with you.” Forgetting he was tied to a tree, he ran forward a couple of feet after the fleeing butterfly and then landed hard on his back. As he stared up at his fleeing foe, he raised his right arm in victory. “Ha!
I am the victor, you coward. That’ll teach you to ruin the concentration of Geoff, the head scribe of the illustrious Lord Hartin.”

  I really liked my chances in our upcoming fight, especially if there were butterflies in attendance. As you may have guessed, fighting is not even remotely one of the skills in my toolbox; cowering and running away are, but still not nearly as great as my abilities in badminton and yogurt sculpting.

  I couldn’t decide if I should help him up or kick him while he was down. I had a furious internal battle between my chivalrous side and the side that wanted to not be killed with a pen. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the irony of being killed that way or that they had pens here. The chivalrous side of me won out, mostly out of fear that, if he was too beaten up, they might pair me with someone more dangerous, like a pacifist or an infant.

  I stood over him so he didn’t think the butterfly was talking to him. “Hi, there. Can I help you up?”

  “My word. Where did you come from?”

  “Axin and Weel brought me here and tied me to the tree. My name’s Harry, by the way.” I grabbed his upraised arm and hauled him up. He must’ve weighed about 90 pounds, the limit of all the strength in my body.

  “I am Mopansin Trantinviavax III, the legendary scribe in service to Lord Hartin, though most people call me Geoff. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  I had created no such character. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Well, it appears that we are both in the same situation here. They captured me as well, after an epic fight of course. I would have been victorious if the awful wind hadn’t conspired against me and forced me to the ground with her mighty breath, bitch goddess that she is.”

  “You believe in the Old Gods, then?”

  “Well, no. That can get a man strung up. I am a loyal believer in The One, I’ll have you know. My ancestor Mopansin Trantinviavax the negative XII was the first person on the entire island of Garandia to switch to the faith of The One. My family have always been the most loyal believers on the island. Some say we’re more loyal than any of our Lord’s 13.7 apostles, too.”

  “Who are these ‘some’ that you refer to?”

  “Master cartographers, Archons, and cheesemongers, mostly.”

  “Cheesemongers?”

  “Cheesemongering has long been the most holy of professions for devoted followers of The One. Everyone knows that. Our Lord and Savior, in his earthly guise, was training to be a cheesemonger before he became afflicted with lactose intolerance and decided to go into the business of saving souls.”

  “That is not part of the religion of The One.” If this moron kept ruining the religion from my books, I would throttle him right there. I had spent a lot of time thinking up those precepts, and they did not involve a savior who was allergic to dairy products.

  When he saw the angry look on my face and the fact that I towered over him, Geoff backed away. “My apologies, my good man. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  I glared at him in sullen silence for a few minutes before I eventually calmed down. He was obviously terrified of me, as his sheepish eyes never let me leave his sight. I was clearly not as even of a match as his previous foe. It felt good to be the bully for once, especially when confronting a future opponent to the fake death.

  As it was unpracticed in that art, my face got tired of being intimidating rather quickly. I decided to at least get to know my opponent, while steering clear of any religious topics; there really wasn’t anything else to do, after all. Axin had tied the knot really tight, and I had given up on untying it. They could have left us some books to read, or maybe a board game.

  “So, what kind of scribing do you do?”

  “I manage the finances and organize the tournaments of the most glorious and noble Lord Hartin. He had told me that no man living or dead could ever match my brilliance with pen and numbers. Why, the entire art of the knightly tournament would end were I not there to organize them, so ingenious is my organization and mathematical prowess. I once turned a mere fifty trakons into the greatest tournament the Continent has ever seen. Unbelievable, is it not?”

  “Not really.”

  “Indeed, it is almost too much to believe. That tournament, which I shouldn’t need to tell you was the tournament of Hake’s Hall, had all of the greatest jousters from all of the lands: Qoon the Fearless, Cat of Lithia, Gilfan the Fair, Slightly Angry Havrug, Bland Gorg, Shutokan the Dyslexic, Bugger Charius, and, of course, our captor Dyfantus the Bold.”

  “That was Dyfantus?” I blurted. Dyfantus was by far the most famous and skilled of the Garandian knights and the main villain in my third book. He was also a major asshole, doubly so for taking my ring. He had once stabbed one of his own knights because he thought the knight would get credit for his victory in a sack race. He loved glory and himself and hated everything else. I should have recognized him, but give me a break; I had just recovered from a probable concussion and I really had had to tinkle. Also, their Dyfantus had his hair parted on the wrong side.

  “Indeed. He was the victor of the joust at that very tournament. He unhorsed Slightly Angry Havrug and Gilfan the Fair in short order. The final match with Cat of Lithia lasted twelve tilts, the longest match in recent memory. The minstrels will be singing of it for generations to come. And it was all due to my unsurpassed ability!”

  I seriously regretted my decision not to kick him while he was down. At the very least, I could have kicked some of the hot air out of him, though he likely had a never-ending supply of that substance. If I could steer the subject away from jousting, then he might be less obnoxious. “That is . . . fascinating. So, why did Dyfantus capture you, anyway? Didn’t he recognize you?”

  “Well, after his glorious victory at the greatest tournament in well over a century, organized by yours truly, he felt he deserved a much larger prize than what was offered. Through my brilliant financial maneuverings, I managed to gather a prize that was unheard of: 5,000 trakons. That is easily twice what has been offered at any tournament in the last few years, but for Dyfantus, it was not enough. When I presented him his prize, he got rather angry and demanded more from my master, the magnificent Lord Hartin. Dyfantus’ two lieutenants kidnapped me the next night and are holding me for ransom until my master can come up with another 2,000 trakons.”

  “Why hasn’t he been arrested? The king should surely intervene.” King Berin the Great was, as his name implies, a fantastic king. He was very strict when it came to following the law. No one would ever get away with such a blatant disregard for the law under his watch, not even his favorite knight.

  “The king is too busy building his latest shrine to care. But I am not worried. I am easily more valuable to my master than a trifling 2,000 trakons. He will no doubt pay shortly, and I will make the sum back for him in a fortnight. It is only a matter of time.”

  “Well, that’s fantastic news. His two cronies were planning on having us fight each other to the death with pens. If you’re so valuable, Dyfantus will never let them do that. He’s already pretty angry with them. Maybe this suggestion will push him over the edge, and he’ll have those two fight to the death instead.”

  “That would be fantastic, but I don’t think he’d let them kill each other. It took him over three months of screening and interviewing candidates before he chose them.”

  “All that time, and he picked them?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re the only ones who could get the theme song quite right. They really knocked it out of the park on the singing portion of the interview.”

  Had he seriously used a baseball reference? As I’m sure you all know, the game of baseball and its terminology had not existed in the Middle Ages and did not exist on the fictional planet I had created based on that time period. I was beginning to feel that the writers of this show weren’t really trying very hard on little things like accuracy and logic.

  “Shouldn’t competence and decision-making have been more important?”

  “Oh, no. He has singing ability
, nerd-bashing, agreeing with everything he says, and blind loyalty as his key attributes.”

  “That sounds like he was recruiting for a musical version of any 80s movie villain.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot the swimsuit competition at the end.”

  I got right in his face. I’m pretty sure he wet himself, which normally would have made my day (as I was usually the wetter and not the wettee), but I had had enough of the ridiculousness these actors kept vomiting out. “Swimsuit competition? I most certainly did not put swimsuits or related competitions in any of my books. This is a medieval-inspired world, and neither of those existed in that time period. Furthermore, you do not have baseball, pens, nerds, or Philistines.”

  He whimpered as he backed farther toward the tree. “My apologies, my good man, but all of those terms are from the Holy Book. Being such a devoted follower of The One, I learned all of them during my extensive studies when I was little, even if they all don’t make sense to me.”

  For the record, the Holy Book was only supposed to be a placeholder name until I came up with something better, but I had forgotten to go back. My embarrassment caused me to back off from Geoff a little, even if my anger didn’t lessen. “How would it make any more sense for an ancient holy person to use those terms than it would for you?”

  “I don’t know, though there are numerous theological treatises on that controversial subject. One book recently discovered in the ruins of a fortress in Bocango suggests the author of the Holy Book was not from Paruxia at all, as had been assumed for centuries, but was from somewhere called Earf. Another theory is that he had a very active imagination and liked to make things up. My personal theory is that he didn’t hire an editor, and we have created meanings for those ancient mistakes to compensate.”

  Before I exploded into an expletive-laced tirade on the ridiculousness of pretty much everything this half-witted actor had said, Weel and Axin returned with idiotic grins on their faces. Those grins were definitely not a good sign for me or my companion, not that I really cared what happened to him after what he’d said.