Page 100 of The Dungeon Book

Bait did.

Only that’s not how it happened.

The door opened. A glimpse of a blue robe.

Click.

Nala. Nala had opened the door, Nala had triggered the trap, Nala was an instant away from a nasty death.

Bait leapt and caught the heavy chain. She swung like a goblin clinging to the head of a flail, and slammed herself solidly into the side of the wardrobe with stunning force. Nala screamed. Orphir, who was just behind Nala, shoved past and sized up the scene in an instant.

“Wretched creature!” he snarled.

He got to do the “guards, seize them” routine instead of Bait. RATS flooded the room. It was not a large bedroom; three guards filled all available space with murderous muscle. They grabbed Bait. They soon found your unconscious form in the wardrobe, and transferred you to the bed. I was not present; I hope they treated you with dignity. Nala said you were strangely soft, not stiff. Like dough, she said.

Orphir put a bag over Bait’s head.

“How is the princess?” he demanded.

Nala hesitated.

“The one on the bed,” he clarified.

“She’s dissolving.”

As assassination attempts go, it was a failure. However, Orphir did not think himself any less imperilled. With the king’s carcass cooling in the next room – forgive me, I forgot who I was monologuing to. With your honoured father’s passing, Orphir needed a princess as a replacement. He had you, but you were unconscious and, if I may be so bold, a bit too liquidified for his purposes. Bait was conscious, but intractable and unbending.

All the spells he’d tried to restore you had failed.

I remember when he murdered me. He stored up grudges and insults long beforehand, brooded on them, let them fester and bubble and brew in the back of his brain. Killing me was the work of years of bitterness, so when the knife came out it was both sudden and slow. I remember the little gasp of release he made as he stabbed me.

Orphir made a little gasp, then said:

“Take it down to the South Tower.”

The RATS carried her out. Nala tried to intercede. Orphir shoved her back inside the room.

“You promised not to harm her!”

“Attend to the true princess,” hissed Orphir, “and I will deal with the dregs.”

The castle suddenly swarmed with activity, with people hurrying this way and that. The king was dead! Woe and sorrow, what a momentous day! Apparently, the servants were expected to express their grief by cleaning and scrubbing everything, by fetching more provisions to feed the expected flood of mourners, a feast salted with tears. The king was dead – look busy.

I wanted to slip out of the front gate and make my escape, but the gate was clogged with messengers and porters. There was every risk that I’d be spotted by the RATS or some other official, and either arrested as a conspirator or pressed into service as a funeral director; either way, I’d be trapped. I kept eating, trying to exude the impression that I would attend to all things once I had finished my meal, but right now I was too overcome with weighty matters to tolerate interruption. I prayed no one would disturb me while I was deep in grief and breakfast.

My prayers went unanswered. A guard – one of the castle guards, not one of the RATS – sat down opposite me. His face, or more particularly his vasty moustache, seemed familiar. It bristled, even though the rest of his face drooped. One had the impression that the moustache was putting a brave face on his face. He too had a breakfast plate in front of him. He pushed black toast, eggs and bacon around with his fork, armies on inconclusive manoeuvres without casualties.

“I’ve quite lost my appetite,” said he, pushing his plate away.

I was still enchanted by the novelty of actual food, so I stooped upon his leftovers. The tea was cold, but the toast and bacon – ah, ambrosia.

“Grief, is it?”

“Everything’s out of its proper place,” he grumbled. “Rebel armies marching to lay siege to my castle, monsters in the courtyard instead of down in the dungeon. The king himself dying in my bed.”

“Your bed.” I placed the moustache in my mind. “Sir Rudyard?”

He nodded. “It’s not that I mind turning my room over to the king. It’s an honour. His kingdom, his castle, his room, of course, but I’d grown used to having my own space. Now, it’s like I’m back campaigning again, sleeping wherever I can find a space to lay my head. I’m not a young man any more. Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. And now he’s gone. It’s all jumbled. It makes one feel adrift.”