The Boy Who Set Sail on a Questionable Quest Read online

  Mika had not expected to have to justify not killing someone. He picked his words carefully.

  ‘You were not seen to be quite as big a problem as Capablanca.’

  ‘That is an outrageous insult,’ said Beo. ‘I am a very big problem indeed. I insist that next time you have a list of people to murder you put me on it.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mika.

  ‘Your plan has failed, then,’ whispered Capablanca weakly.

  ‘Not completely,’ answered Mika. ‘For Princess Lois has been successfully abducted and you, the great wizard, have been poisoned. Only the killing of Blart has been entirely unsuccessful.’

  ‘We must act without delay,’ said Beo, suddenly realising the seriousness of the situation. ‘Now we know the identity of the Princess’s kidnappers I will go after them, kill them and bring her back.’

  Mika laughed derisively.

  ‘Do you think we are amateurs?’ he demanded. ‘We have arranged the fastest horses to get the Princess to the harbour at Arcadia, where lies the fastest ship ever built, ready to carry her to Styxia.’

  ‘As a knight, I will still try,’ insisted Beo, ‘though I may die in the attempt.’

  ‘No, Beo,’ said Capablanca, managing to invest his voice with a little of its old authority. ‘The Styxians have long been masters of the seas – such a chase would be hopeless. I must have time to think of a better plan.’

  ‘What are we to do, Capablanca?’ asked Beo. ‘They will marry the Princess against her will.’

  Capablanca shook his head.

  ‘They cannot,’ he wheezed, ‘since Blart is still alive. Any such marriage would be invalid and would not satisfy the prophecy. But the Styxians must be notified. Send Pig the Horse with a message to the Styxian kingdom saying Blart survived.’

  ‘What else?’ asked Beo.

  Capablanca was about to answer when a leech moved on to his face. Until now the wizard had been unaware of the presence of the bloodsuckers.

  ‘What’s that?’ he cried in horror. ‘Get them off me!’

  ‘They are sucking out all the infection,’ Lowenthal assured him.

  ‘They’re sucking all the blood out too,’ protested Capablanca. ‘Look how fat that one is.’

  ‘I told him to amputate something,’ said Beo, ‘but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Get them off me!’ repeated Capablanca.

  ‘But …’ protested Lowenthal. ‘I’m convinced that leeches are the answer to every medical problem. They are a panacea for all human ills – plague, ague, warts and bunions. In years to come, mothers will tell their children, “A leech a day keeps the doctor away.”’

  ‘Do as he says,’ instructed Beo.

  Reluctantly, and with the aid of some salt, Lowenthal complied.

  ‘Come on, Bile,’ he said, pulling one leech off and placing it gently in a glass bowl filled with water. ‘And you, Mucus.’

  ‘You give the foul bloodsuckers names?’ said Beo in disbelief.

  ‘I give my pigs names,’ said Blart, for the first time feeling a little kindred spirit with the doctor.

  ‘A creature that may soon prevent all human illness for ever deserves a name,’ said Lowenthal defensively. ‘There you go, Ooze.’

  Capablanca closed his eyes.

  ‘I do not know how long it will be before I can travel again,’ he said. ‘I am too weak to cast spells and so I cannot use magic to rid my body of this terrible poison.’

  ‘What are we to do while you recover?’ asked Beo.

  The wizard opened his eyes. It was obvious to anybody that the conversation had drained the last of his strength.

  ‘It is very important …’ he began, ‘that you … puddle … custard … fork …’

  ‘Puddle, custard, fork,’ repeated Beo mystified.

  ‘Trousers … pillow,’ continued Capablanca and his open eyes were wild and glassy.

  ‘He is delirious,’ diagnosed Lowenthal. ‘The sucking of the leeches was keeping the poison at bay, but now they have been removed the poison has once more taken hold of his body. If we do not immediately put them back on he could die.’

  ‘Soup … earwig … promise … suitors,’ continued Capablanca.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t a bit of him that you could chop off?’ asked Beo.

  Lowenthal shook his head.

  ‘The poison is everywhere. Only leeches can help him now.’

  ‘Hamster,’ said Capablanca.

  Blart looked at the wizard and remembered the quests they had gone on together; he remembered the risks Capablanca had made him run; he remembered the pigs that he would never see again because of this wizard; but he remembered something more important – a king somewhere wanted Blart dead, and kings tend to get what they want. Blart needed all the friends he could get.

  ‘Put the leeches back on,’ he ordered the physician.

  Beo looked a little surprised at Blart issuing an order, but he made no attempt to countermand the decision and Lowenthal acted immediately. Capablanca’s wild eyes closed and he lapsed back into the fog of a trance, his harsh breathing rasping around the bedchamber as he fought for his life.

  Chapter 7

  ‘And is there any news on Capablanca?’ asked the King dolefully the next morning, still coming to terms with the attempted murder of Blart and the Styxian prophecy which required Princess Lois’s marriage to Prince Anatoly, thus spelling the destruction of Illyria. He really felt as if he could do with some good news.

  ‘He is still delirious, my liege,’ answered Beo.

  The throne room had been cleared overnight but outside they could hear the great crowd which had gathered during the morning.

  ‘But my people need guidance,’ said the King. ‘Did he not say anything that might lead us in the correct course of action?’

  ‘The last words he spoke,’ Beo informed the King, ‘were “soup, earwig, hamster”.’

  ‘Is that a code that we might decipher?’ asked the King.

  Beo shook his head.

  ‘This is terrible,’ said the King. ‘Capablanca is the person Illyrians have always turned to in times of need.’

  ‘And me,’ Blart reminded him.

  ‘We must be prepared to act without him,’ said Beo. ‘For his recovery may take a long time or … he may not recover at all.’

  ‘I must be decisive,’ said the King. ‘I must lead my people in this time of crisis. What should I do?’

  Kolkis, the King’s steward, entered the room.

  ‘Would you speak to the crowd, sire?’ he asked. ‘Things are starting to get out of hand. There’s been some mumbling and muttering.’

  ‘Mumbling and muttering?’ said the Queen in surprise.

  ‘And quite a lot of head shaking.’

  ‘Head shaking?’ repeated the Queen.

  The steward nodded. ‘And there are reports that in some parts of the city there have been spontaneous outbursts of queue jumping.’

  The King’s countenance paled.

  ‘The orderly queue is the foundation of Illyrian society.’

  ‘You must calm your people, sire,’ said the steward.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘You were wrong,’ said Blart suddenly.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the King.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Blart, showing scant respect for his father-in-law. ‘I was talking to Beo.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Beo.

  ‘When you said that Capablanca’s last words before he fell into a trance were “soup, earwig, hamster” – you forgot he said “promise” and “suitors” as well.’

  This news seemed to jolt the King’s memory, and his face lit up.

  ‘Capablanca, how could I forget?’ he proclaimed joyfully. ‘Illyria is once again in your debt for having a cunning plan in readiness for such an occasion.’ The King’s eyes gleamed with hope as he turned to Blart and Beo.

  ‘Before he became ill,’ continued the King, ‘Capablanca
discussed with me a plan he had concocted in readiness for when the prophecy should begin to unfold. It’s …’ The King stopped suddenly.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten it, have you?’ asked Blart.

  Outside, the discontented noise was growing louder.

  ‘Throw open the windows!’ the King cried. ‘I will tell my people of the plan that will save them.’

  The steward threw open the balcony windows.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ said the King to the Queen. ‘Stand on my right as I speak.’ Then he looked at Blart. ‘And as Prince of the realm you must stand on my left.’

  The King was already stepping out on to the balcony. Dragging his feet, Blart followed.

  ‘Don’t pick your nose,’ said the steward as Blart stepped into the light.

  Chapter 8

  The trumpets blared as the King, the Queen and, a few moments later, a surly-looking Blart appeared on the balcony. In truth, the trumpet playing that greeted the King and Queen was not quite as impressive as that which announced the arrival of other sovereigns. It was felt in Illyria to be unfair if only the best trumpet players got to play for the monarch, because it discriminated against those who tried hard but just weren’t very good. So it was decreed that all trumpet players of any ability could play when the King appeared. Which meant that when the King stepped out there was a cacophony of trumpet notes in every key known to music, and some that were yet to be discovered.

  ‘Hello, everybody,’ said the King. ‘The Queen and I and Prince Blart are very grateful to you for coming to see us today. We are never happier than when we see our subjects.’

  ‘I’d rather see some pigs,’ muttered Blart.

  There was a shout from the crowd.

  ‘Tell us about the Gigantic Bell.’

  The King was taken aback. Heckling in Illyria is unheard of.

  ‘Yes, tell us,’ demanded another voice.

  Quite unbelievable. In the panic of last night it was reasonable for some licence to be granted – it was dark, confusing, frightening – but now, in the bright light of day … To the King it felt as though the whole of Illyrian society was breaking down in front of his eyes. But for the sake of the nation he controlled his consternation.

  ‘What a good idea,’ he said to the crowd. ‘Thank you for reminding me. That’s exactly what I wanted to do, but I must warn you that I have some good news and I have some slightly less good news. The slightly less good news, as some of you may already know, is that my daughter, heir to the Illyrian throne, has been abducted.’

  Discontented murmurings in the crowd turned to cries.

  ‘She’s been married less than a week.’

  ‘That fulfils the prophecy.’

  ‘We’re doomed.’

  ‘Peace, good people!’ cried the King. ‘For now that the slightly less good news is known I can move on to the good news. The good news is that we have a plan.’

  There were mutterings of approval. Whenever things go wrong people like to know that there is a plan, even if they don’t know what the plan is.

  ‘All of you,’ continued the King, ‘will have heard of the great sorcerer Capablanca, who has been a friend to Illyria and has recently saved it from destruction. Thanks to Capablanca, with the assistance of Sir Beowulf the Knight and our own noble Princess Lois –’

  ‘And me,’ Blart reminded the King.

  ‘– Illyria remains the kindest and happiest kingdom in the world. And so it will continue. For Capablanca, who is, er … indisposed just at the moment with a fruit-related stomach upset…’ The crowd murmured sympathetically. Fruit-related stomach disagreements were common in Illyria. ‘For Capablanca anticipated this problem,’ the King went on. ‘And he foresaw that Illyrians, as the most peaceful people on earth, would be at a loss as to how to act should the prophecy begin to unfold. Seeing the numerous suitors for Princess Lois’s hand in marriage, he wisely advised me to make every potential suitor give a solemn vow before they were allowed to press their suit: that if they were unsuccessful and Princess Lois married someone else and that marriage was ever threatened, they would do all in their power to defend it.’

  There was confusion in the crowd as they tried to understand exactly what it was the King was saying. He wasted no time in making it clearer.

  ‘Princess Lois rejected seventy-five suitors. This means that there are seventy-five noblemen all sworn to defend her marriage. Messengers will be despatched to each and every one of them, asking him to bring a ship fully loaded with armed men to the main Illyrian harbour at Arcadia. There will be gathered the greatest fleet ever seen. This armada will set sail for Styxia, where Princess Lois has been taken. It will land at Yort, the grim fortress capital where she is imprisoned. There the troops will lay siege until the Styxians return the Princess to us. Before the moon is full again and the dread prophecy comes true the Great Armada will bring her back and Illyria will once more be a happy and peaceful land.’

  The words of the King captured the hearts of the people. The questioning minority began to shrink as rounds of applause and cheers echoed through the square. The King was delighted that he had had such an effect on his people and determined to tell them even more good news.

  ‘Let it be known,’ he cried, ‘that these princes and nobles from kingdoms all over the globe will be led on their voyage by our own new flagship. This ship will be named and launched any day now and I declare that day to be a day of national celebration.’

  More cheers and applause echoed through Elysium Square as the image of a great new ship gripped the crowd and filled them with pride. Overcome with a love for his people and with his faith in their ability to see the good in all things, the King decided to reveal one more piece of news.

  ‘And furthermore,’ he announced, ‘let it be known that the Great Armada will be led by none other than our own adopted son, Prince Blart.’

  The cheers dwindled to mumbles, the applause slowed and then stopped. Blart looked about him at the thousands of doubtful eyes that trained their gaze on him.

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  Chapter 9

  The country was a fever of activity. Messages were dispatched all round the world to suitors near and far, summoning them on their oath to come and join the Great Illyrian Armada. Each day more noblemen docked their ships in Arcadia and led their troops into Illyria to pay homage to the King. The population of Elysium swelled dramatically as the Illyrians tried to house and feed all the extra bodies, and fruit supplies ran dangerously low. In the palace, extra servants were taken on and the passageways were jammed full of them, rushing hither and thither. All these noblemen required rooms to be found for them and all needed feeding. It was a mammoth undertaking. And everywhere there was the talk of war. In every corner, excited young men earnestly discussed the coming campaign, considered possible routes, debated tactics and wagered on who would achieve the most glory.

  There was only one place where this feverish anticipation was absent.

  Blart’s bedchamber.

  While all around him there was hustle and bustle, Blart sat grumpily staring out of his window, thinking about how unfair life was as he watched the moon slowly diminish. Every night less of it was visible. At some point it would disappear entirely. But then it would return. Little by little, night by night, it would grow again until it hung high and full above the world. And the prophecy said if Blart did not have Princess Lois back by then, Illyria would be destroyed. And if he didn’t go to save her, Beo would cleave him in two. But if he did go to save her, as her husband he was doomed to die anyway. The only options Blart had were to die now or when the moon was full once more. He didn’t think it was much of a choice.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Blart turned round. Sir Beowulf stood in the doorway to his bedchamber. He was under strict instructions from the King to cheer Blart up.

  ‘Don’t you know about knocking?’ said Blart sullenly.

  ‘Tis times like this,’ said Beo, ignori
ng Blart’s question, ‘when a man stands on the verge of a great quest, that he takes a moment or two to think of the things that matter to him most.’

  Beo paused. Blart said nothing. Beo wasn’t finding this cheering-up thing particularly easy. Nobody ever tried to cheer him up when he was a young page. The youth of today were all pampered and spoilt, he thought. Why, when he was a stripling he’d longed for the opportunity to die on a quest. But young people these days. Give them a perfectly good opportunity to die and they sat around sulking. What they needed was a good … but then Beo remembered the King’s orders.

  ‘I normally think about pies,’ he continued. ‘I think to myself that when I return from the quest I will sit me down in a comfortable tavern with a flagon of ale and treat myself to the largest most succulent pie that a cook could make.’

  Still Blart said nothing.

  ‘It would do you good to think of what you will reward yourself with when this task is done,’ Beo went on.

  ‘I’ll be rewarded with my death,’ Blart reminded him. ‘It says so in the prophecy.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Beo awkwardly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘So don’t be asking me to think of what I want when I come back from this quest, because I won’t be coming back, will I?’

  ‘Well, best not to dwell on these things,’ said Beo, trying to inject a cheery tone into his voice. ‘Have you done your packing?’

  But before Blart could answer, Kolkis the Steward rushed in, red-faced.

  ‘The King requests that Prince Blart and Sir Beo attend on him in the throne room at once – Pig the Horse has returned from Styxia. There is news!’

  ‘Do you hear that, Blart?’ repeated Beo. ‘There is news!’

  ‘So what?’ said Blart.

  Beo decided he had had enough of the gentle approach.

  Minutes later the King and Queen were startled when the throne room door burst open and Sir Beo marched in, carrying Blart over his shoulder.

  ‘Is he cheered up?’ asked the King with concern.

  ‘Well, he’s up,’ said Beo.

  ‘It is good to see you happy again, Prince Blart,’ said the Queen.