The Boy Who Set Sail on a Questionable Quest Read online

  ‘I’m not …’

  But Blart’s objections were lost as the steward entered, leading a massive black horse, its flanks still steaming. The great beast seemed bigger and more powerful than ever in an enclosed space, even one as large as the throne room.

  ‘Pig!’ cried Blart.

  It was a name that Blart himself had bestowed on the horse and was considered by almost everybody else to be inappropriate, being neither noble nor inspiring. But Pig the Flying Horse would answer to no other name.

  ‘What’s that in his bridle?’ said Beo.

  ‘It’s a dispatch,’ answered Kolkis. ‘It bears the seal of King Gregor the Grizzled.’

  ‘Bring it to me, please,’ requested the King.

  The steward did as he was bid. The King broke the seal and unrolled the parchment and read, ‘So-called King Philidor …’

  ‘That’s not a very friendly start,’ observed the Queen and then, feeling annoyed with herself for having rushed to judgement, she added, ‘but then again, perhaps he is not a natural letter writer.’

  ‘I wish you were here …’

  ‘A much more pleasant sentiment,’ said the Queen more cheerfully.

  ‘…for then,’ the King continued, ‘I would rip out your heart and feed it to my dogs, and for pudding I would stuff them full of the bloody entrails of your adopted son, Blart, which I would tear with my own bare hands from his still living body …’

  ‘He does have quite a turn of phrase,’ said the Queen. ‘Very visual.’

  ‘What are entrails?’ asked Blart. ‘Would I miss them?’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Beo.

  ‘Know that I have your daughter. She has an ill nature …’

  ‘He’s right there,’ agreed Blart.

  ‘… but that will be beaten out of her when she is married into my family. Sadly the wedding will have to be delayed, for the foul pig boy, her husband, still lives – a fact confirmed by my servant Uri, who paid for his failure to kill him with his own life. But know, O feeble monarch, I am a true king. I am not used to delay and inconvenience and I will not tolerate it. Know that I have opened the coffers of the Styxian treasury and withdrawn gold sufficient to pay the Guild of Assassins. Blart will be dead before the month is out and your daughter will be dragged up the altar to marry my son whether she says “aye” or “nay”. Give my regards to your wife.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s finishing in a civilised fashion,’ said the Queen.

  The King coughed.

  ‘Give my regards to your wife, who I would happily watch die in a pool of her own blood. Yours sincerely, Gregor.’

  The room fell silent as they pondered these grim tidings. It was Blart who spoke first.

  ‘Does that mean someone else is trying to kill me?’

  The others were saved the task of having to admit this was true, because Lowenthal rushed into the throne room.

  ‘Capablanca has recovered consciousness,’ the physician announced, ‘and demands to see Blart alone immediately.’

  ‘He must still be delirious,’ said Beo.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Lowenthal, ‘but he is most insistent.’

  Soon afterwards, Blart gingerly entered the chamber of the sick wizard.

  ‘Come closer, boy,’ said Capablanca faintly. ‘Let me look at you.’

  ‘Why?’ said Blart.

  ‘Because I am weak and my eyesight is failing.’

  ‘I look just like I always did.’

  ‘Just come here when I tell you to,’ said the wizard with a touch of his old exasperation.

  Reluctantly, Blart obeyed.

  ‘Blart, my boy,’ said Capablanca, and there was something approaching tenderness in his voice.

  ‘What are you calling me “my boy” for?’

  ‘Because,’ said the wizard, ‘tomorrow you will become a man.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about the pigs and the bees?’ demanded Blart.

  ‘You mean the birds and the bees,’ corrected Capablanca.

  ‘I know what I mean,’ said Blart. ‘Well, you don’t need to. I know where piglets come from.’

  ‘That was not why I summoned you here,’ said Capablanca peevishly. ‘But if you will just listen for a moment I will tell you why.’

  Blart listened.

  ‘I say you will become a man tomorrow,’ repeated Capablanca, ‘because it is then that you will lead the Great Armada from the port of Arcadia in pursuit of your bride and to save this beautiful country. It is a noble quest.’

  ‘I’ve been on quests before,’ countered Blart. ‘Why is this one different?’

  ‘Because …’ Capablanca paused. ‘This time I will not be there to guide you. You will be the leader.’

  It took a few moments for Blart to comprehend what the wizard was saying. And then there was panic.

  ‘What do you mean you’re not coming?’ cried Blart desperately. ‘What do you mean I’ve got to be the leader? I don’t know where I’m going. I’ll get lost.’

  ‘The burden of leadership is heavy,’ agreed Capablanca gravely, ‘and I confess that I would have hoped to have been there at your side, for the task you face is filled with peril. But, alas, I am too weak.’

  ‘You don’t look so bad to me,’ said Blart.

  ‘Blart,’ said the wizard, ‘after you depart I have my own enemy to face in this very room. My battle with death.’

  ‘Perhaps the sea air will do you good,’ suggested Blart.

  ‘It is no good,’ said the wizard. ‘You must go without me. But I have something to give you, the most precious thing I own. It may help you in this quest.’

  Though Blart tried not to show it, he was excited. What could this thing be?

  ‘Reach under the bed, Blart,’ instructed the wizard, ‘for it is there that you will find it.’

  Blart did as he was told. He reached under the bed. His hand touched something cold. He pulled out the wizard’s chamber pot.

  ‘Eeeeuurghh,’ said Blart.

  ‘Not that,’ said the wizard angrily.

  Blart shoved the chamber pot back under the bed. He felt again, this time more carefully. His hand touched something soft. He pulled out a small black bag.

  That’s it,’ said the wizard. ‘Pass it to me.’

  Blart handed it over. The wizard took out a small mirror. He held it up in front of Blart.

  Blart’s face looked blankly back at him.

  ‘It’s me,’ he observed.

  ‘Now it is you,’ said the wizard, ‘but know that this is no normal mirror. This is the Misty Mirror of Miracle. Sometimes it mists over. When it clears it will show you somewhere else entirely.’

  Blart shook the mirror vigorously and looked in it again.

  ‘Still me,’ he informed Capablanca.

  ‘Stop shaking it,’ ordered the wizard. ‘It’s not a toy. This mirror was made long, long ago by the elves in the hidden forests of Mysteria. Those elves have long departed from this world and with them the ancient lore that allowed its creation. Look into it, Blart, and sometimes it will show you things that will help you.’

  ‘But how do I make it show me?’ persisted Blart.

  ‘Puddle,’ answered the wizard.

  ‘Puddle?’ repeated Blart.

  ‘Puddle … lettuce … bunion … earwig …’ The wizard lapsed back into delirium. Blart was on his own.

  Chapter 10

  All too soon, as far as Blart was concerned, it was morning and he found himself behind Beo, riding on the back of Pig the Horse as they approached the port of Arcadia, where the Great Armada lay waiting for them. He could feel the Misty Mirror of Miracle nestled in his pocket. Last night, he had looked at it many times, but it had shown him nothing but his own face. Blart decided it was broken.

  ‘Remember,’ said Beo, ‘when we get there, you’re going to stay sitting on Pig’s back to make your speech so that you’re high enough for people to see. You name the new flagship the Golden Ray of Hope and you smash a bottle of ale agai
nst its side to make its launch official.’

  As they got closer to the harbour the streets became more and more crowded. All the inhabitants of the port had thronged down to the wharf to cheer the great fleet as it departed. Children caught the air of anticipation and ran giddily about, women chatted noisily and men halloed greetings.

  Through them all, Pig the Horse trotted down towards the quay, where a spectacular sight greeted the questors.

  Seventy ships, each commanded by a failed suitor of Princess Lois, choked the harbour, every one fully manned and ready to sail. There were ships of all different shapes and sizes. There were tall ships and small boats, slim skiffs and stout galleons, every one ready and waiting for the leader of the armada to join his flagship.

  And there was Blart’s flagship, tied to the harbour, her mast reaching higher into the sky than that of any other ship, a grand vessel built for speed. And her colour added to her impressive appearance, for sides, deck and mast were all painted in a shimmering gold.

  ‘Tis a fine sight,’ cried Beo. ‘Anyone who considers himself a man would yearn to sail on her.’

  ‘But I’m not a man,’ protested Blart. ‘I’m a …’

  He remembered Capablanca’s words. No longer was he a boy.

  Every possible vantage point was filled. Men stood on walls and fences, women crowded into windows, boys stood on other boys, often without their consent, to get a better view. There was a noisy hubbub until Blart and Beo approached. Word spread faster than fire through the crowd and it turned as one to watch the approach of Prince Blart, who was to lead the greatest armada ever assembled. The King and Queen rose from their travel thrones at the gangway to greet him. And so the news spread out from the land on to the sea where the ships lay ready to weigh anchor, and from the ships arose shouts of approbation. Their leader was coming. The huge figure on the back of the great black horse. That was a leader and no mistake, thought the fleet as they caught what they thought was the first sight of their commander.

  And then Pig the Horse stopped and the great hulking figure got off, revealing the slight weedy frame of Prince Blart. If Blart did not rise to the occasion now, then the quest might be doomed before it began.

  ‘Say something,’ hissed Beo from below. ‘Name the ship the Golden Ray of Hope and smash this bottle against her side.’

  Beo passed up a bottle of ale.

  All Blart wanted was for these eyes to no longer be upon him.

  ‘Inamethisshipthe GoldenRayofHope,’ he said as fast as he possibly could and threw the bottle.

  It was unfortunate that in his nervousness Blart threw the bottle rather harder than necessary. It sailed over the side of the ship and smashed straight into the head of the captain, knocking him unconscious to the deck.

  ‘Oh,’ said Blart.

  There was a silence. And then there was laughter. Laughter from the harbour and laughter from the fleet. But no laughter from Beo.

  ‘Was it so hard?’ he shouted.

  ‘I think they like me,’ said Blart, gulled like so many before him into mistaking mockery for approval.

  ‘They’re not laughing with you,’ Beo informed him. ‘They’re laughing at you.’

  The knight pulled a spare bottle of ale from his jerkin, which he had been reserving for his own personal use, and passed it up to Blart.

  ‘Name the ship and this time get it right or I’ll pull you off that horse and throw you into the harbour, prince or no prince.’

  Kolkis the Steward rushed over from the King’s side.

  ‘His Majesty says you must call it something different. If the bottle fails to break then the original name is unlucky.’

  ‘Make it good,’ ordered Beo.

  The laughter subsided. Everyone waited to see what Prince Blart would do next.

  Blart tried to think of a good name for a ship. He needed more time. Maybe if he started to speak then a name would come to him. And before he knew it he was speaking to more people than he had ever spoken to in his life.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Blart. And I am going to be the leader of the quest. And I don’t think you should be laughing at me. Anyone can miss the side of a boat with a bottle. It’s not like I’m a bottle thrower. Or a ship namer. Or a prince.’

  Sir Beo put his head in his hands. They would never follow him if he told them that.

  ‘I’m a pig boy,’ Blart continued. ‘If that ship had been a pig, I would have known what to do. So you shouldn’t laugh at me. Just because my body is that of a feeble pig boy it doesn’t mean that my heart isn’t just as big as a prince’s. So there.’

  There was a moment’s silence as everyone took in what he had said.

  And then there were cheers. Loud ringing cheers which echoed around the quay. Sir Beo lifted his head out of his hands in amazement. Instead of the moans of a sulky boy, the crowd had heard a young man nobly acknowledging his humble origins while proudly announcing that despite them he could still lead the quest as well as any prince of royal birth. It was an inspiring, revolutionary statement. It also wasn’t what Blart meant. But who cared? Certainly not Blart. With the cheers ringing in his ears he raised the bottle of ale high.

  ‘I name this ship the Golden Pig!’ he cried, and so saying, smashed the bottle against the hull.

  The crowds cheered wildly. The great voyage had begun.

  Chapter 11

  Blart and Beo stood on the foredeck, looking out on the vast expanse of the Great Eastern Ocean. Above them the last of the gulls which had followed them out of the harbour were beginning to disappear. They were now on the high seas.

  ‘The Golden Pig?’ said Beo for the hundredth time. ‘The Golden Pig?’

  ‘It’s a great name,’ said Blart.

  ‘I still can’t believe the armada followed you.’

  But, whatever Sir Beo could or couldn’t believe, follow him they had. The Great Armada now lay stretched out behind the Golden Pig, its crisp white sails billowing in the noon-day sun.

  ‘This leading thing is much easier than I thought,’ boasted Blart. ‘Capablanca always used to act like it was a terrible burden but it’s very simple.’

  Sir Beo was not sure that he could listen to Blart lecture him on the simplicity of leadership without surrendering to the urge to pick him up and hurl him overboard, and so, mindful of his Illyrian knight’s vow to use violence only when all other means had been exhausted, he decided to go and find his cabin.

  Blart was left alone. He looked at the sea. The sea had been bothering him ever since they left the port. Every sea that he’d seen before was blue, but this sea was green. Not even a bluey green. Just green. He wondered if there was something wrong with it. But his speculation was halted by something banging against his foot. A mop.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Blart.

  The mop banged against his foot again.

  ‘Oi,’ said Blart indignantly.

  The mopper was a small fresh-faced boy, wearing a neat blue and white stripey T-shirt and trousers that stopped just below his calves. He had his hair in a pony tail as seemed to be the fashion among sailors. He was mopping vigorously. And he was getting Blart’s shoes wet in the process.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Blart demanded.

  ‘Cap’n told me to swab the foredeck,’ said the boy.

  ‘To what the foredeck?’ said Blart.

  ‘Swab it.’

  ‘But you’re mopping it,’ Blart pointed out.

  ‘That’s what swabbing means,’ the boy replied.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Tigran the Cabin Boy.’

  ‘I’m Prince Blart,’ said Blart. ‘But really I’m Blart the Pig Boy.’

  ‘Whichever you are,’ said Tigran, ‘your feet are in the way of my mop and I’d be obliged if you’d shift ’em or the captain will have me picking weevils out of the ship’s biscuits until a quarter past six bells.’

  Blart thought about asking Tigran to translate this strange sea talk but then decided that
he didn’t really care. So instead he moved his feet and Tigran the Cabin Boy swabbed past him and onwards across the rest of the foredeck. There was something strange about Tigran the Cabin Boy, Blart thought, but he couldn’t decide what it was. Thinking about it was too much trouble, so he went back to staring at the sea.

  He had been contemplating its unnatural greeness for a while when suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  Blart turned round.

  Standing behind him, straight and tall, with an open friendly smile, stood a young man a few years older than Blart.

  ‘Prince Blart, I presume,’ said the stranger, extending his hand. ‘Good to meet you at last. The successful suitor. I’m one of the failures – too cheerful apparently. That’s what the Princess said. But no hard feelings, of course. The best man won and all that. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Blart suspiciously. People weren’t usually pleased to meet him.

  ‘Who am I? Fair question,’ said the youth. ‘I am Olaf. Count Olaf to be precise. Heir to the something or other. Can never remember what it is. Father tells me about it but my mind glazes over. Don’t you find your mind goes all blank when your parents start to talk about money?’

  ‘I haven’t got any parents,’ said Blart.

  This revelation in no way embarrassed Olaf.

  ‘Murdered were they?’ he asked cheerfully.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blart.

  ‘Lots of people’s parents are.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Olaf. ‘Tribal feuds account for a lot of them where I come from. Parents lying dead wherever you look. Children who haven’t got at least one murdered parent tend to get bullied at school. Still, got to look on the bright side, eh?’

  ‘What’s the bright side?’ said Blart, noticing a second sailor, wearing a red bandana and carrying a mop, join Tigran to swab the foredeck.

  Olaf looked momentarily puzzled as he searched his mind for a bright side to the death of your parents, but then his countenance cleared once more.

  ‘Don’t know what it is,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure there is one. Always is. Look on it when it turns up, eh? That’s what I do.’