“Dragons eat your letter,” the guard said and this time shoved harder, pushing him back beyond the wall. “Out!”
“Not until you hear me.” The stranger shook himself free of the heavy hand and straightened his threadbare costume. “I am come from Amaury Palace, and I have a letter from King Grosveneur—”
“Sure you have,” said the other guard. He was smaller than the first, his voice thin. “Away with you, lad.” He made to shut the gate.
The Fool darted forward and caught it, and since he was stronger, pushed it back open and leapt inside. “I say, this is no way to treat guests!”
“We don’t treat guests this way,” the larger guard said. “Only tramps.” He caught the Fool by the back of the neck, lifting him like a kitten by the scruff. The Fool kicked, catching the guard in the shin, and both guard and Fool howled in pain, pulling apart from each other and hopping about, the guard clutching his leg, the Fool clutching his foot. The smaller guard hooted with laughter, which earned him a knock in the side of the head from his fellow. Then they both turned to the idiot and lunged.
“Oi!” bellowed the Fool. “If you don’t let me through, I’ll be certain it gets back to your superior officer, and you’ll wish you’d never—”
“Right. As though you’ll be on chatting terms with my superior officer,” the bigger one growled. “Listen, mister, we don’t let just anyone come trampin’ through here, and anyone who tells you otherwise—”
At that moment, movement among the bushes caught the Fool’s gaze. A girl stood there, peering out from behind a bush. She wore a simple gown, and her hair was pulled back in a braid with strands escaping messily about her face. Her eyes were round with surprise, and when she saw the Fool looking at her she ducked back behind the shrubs. He could not tell if she was a lady of the palace or merely a servant, but it seemed worth a try.
“Lady!” he cried. He pulled and twisted, nearly breaking free again. “Fair lady! You seem of a gentle nature. Tell these blackguards to unhand me—OW !”
The smaller guard caught hold of his ear and gave it a vicious twist, knocking his bell-dripped hat off in the process. Then the big one picked him off his feet and tossed him out through the gate. The Fool rolled ungracefully in the dirt partway back downhill. With a cry of “And take your hat with you!” the guards slammed the gate with a final, ringing clang.
Lionheart—for it was he, somewhat thinner, paler, and more threadbare than last seen—picked himself up stiffly. He could feel bruises developing all over his body. How was it that he could face a dragon and live, yet couldn’t get past two such bumblers? They watched him between the bars of the gate, so with great dignity he walked back up the hill. They stiffened and one put a hand to his sword, but Lionheart did not look at them. He picked up his jester’s hat, which looked like a crushed flower. Shaking it out so that all the bells jingled, he placed it back on his head, tilting it at a rakish angle. Then he swept the guards a bow. “Farewell, great oafs of idiotic disposition,” he said. “Until next we meet.”
“Away with you!”
Lionheart hastened back down the hill.
He did not retrace his path down the western side of the hill into Sondhold. No, that would be to admit defeat. This was merely a regrouping to consider his next course of action. He’d already tried his luck at Westgate and been rebuffed. “Bring your petitions on the third and fifth days of the week,” everyone said.
“I don’t come with a petition! I come with a letter of recommendation from—”
But no one believed him.
One dead end after another. Lionheart cursed as he picked his way down the hill. Was he destined to spend another four years in Sondhold, just as he had in Lunthea Maly, desperately trying to gain access to the palace and being turned back at every portal? Performing at Beauclair had not proven this difficult. Amaury Palace was famed for its spectacles and entertainments, however, and a jester of any worth could easily find a place there. Not so in sober Parumvir.
Goldstone Wood grew up this side of the hill, and Lionheart found himself approaching its thick and untamed borders. The shade cast by the trees looked inviting. Any relief from this blistering heat would be welcome. Lionheart doubted any of the fabled monsters that purportedly lived within that shade would suddenly creep to this portion of the wood to devour one rejected jester. So he flopped down with his back against a tall, spreading maple at the edge of the forest, and took stock of his position.