Fortune's Fool - Mercedes Lackey [8]
He brought them all Luck.
Traditionally, there was no particular way in which the Wise Fool needed to bring the Luck, as long as he did something that could be linked into the magic of The Tradition itself.
Now as it happened, there could not possibly have been a better match, temperamentally, for the role of the Wise Fool than Sasha.
He was musical, and music was a potent link for The Tradition. He was not much like his older brothers, being smaller and lighter than they. Not that he was bad at combat, but not the sort that they were good at. If it ever came to a war, and he had to fight, he would be darting in and out with light armor and long knives while they laid waste to their foes with ax, mace, and heavy broadsword. Prince Adrik called him “Ferret”—mockingly in public, jestingly in private.
He was a thinker, a scholar, and studied The Tradition and anything else he could get his hands on alongside his brother Prince Yasha. In private, Yasha called him “Little Owl.” In public, Yasha berated him and called him “Little Fool.”
For that, too, was an aspect of the Wise Fool. So far as the rest of the world was concerned, Sasha’s family despised him. That was how The Tradition wanted it.
But from the very beginning, the tiny boy with the too-wise eyes had gotten it all very carefully explained to him. We must shout at you before other people, but it is all a game. We love you. You are our treasure, our blood, our Fortune. And he had been precocious enough to at least understand the difference between what was said and done in public, and what was said and done in private. Before too very long, he was clearly enjoying the “game” aspect, the way his entire family fooled the rest of the Court and indeed the whole kingdom. His greatest joy had been when he had acted particularly stupid, been threatened with a thrashing, chased into the family’s private quarters, then picked up, swung around and praised for his inventiveness.
Not that, as a child, he hadn’t gotten into some trouble for taking advantage of his position. He’d been soundly thrashed, and more than once, for exceeding the bounds of what was permitted in his mischief and foolery. He was not as a child, and was not now, any kind of an angel.
“You skirted very near the pale today, my son,” his father growled, an expression of mixed pride and irritation on his bearlike, bearded face. “That business with the boyars—one more prank and I would have been forced to thrash you in public.”
“That business with the boyars” had involved Sasha getting tangled up with their huge fur cloaks, tumbling among them, tripping them up and destroying their dignity and tempers, all the while easily dodging the blows they’d aimed at him.
“Yes, but you got to soothe their tempers with vodka, and got them to sympathize with you. You had them eating out of your hand, Father.” Sasha had known what he was doing—they had entered the doors of the Palace hating one another and determined to do nothing to cooperate. He had forced them together, and given them something else to vent their ire on.
Well, all right, the truth was that they were a lot of pompous windbags and he had wanted to see them deflated. He’d counted on vodka and his father to smooth things over again.
King Pieter aimed a mock blow at his head. He ducked. “Now I am going to have to chase you out to give credence to the tale that I am angry with you,” his father said. “Don’t do that again, or it will be more than pretense. These men are touchy, and I’m negotiating for a bride for your brother. I don’t want that to fail because of your mischief.”
Instantly, Sasha was abashed. “I didn’t know, Father,” he said apologetically. “I wouldn’t have been so irritating if I had.”
“Hmph,” his father grunted. “Keep in mind that I don’t tell you everything. Nor should I. Now—wait, let me find something I can throw at you without harm.” His eye lit on an old boot one of the Wolfhounds had dragged to the fire to chew on, and picked it up. “All right, out you go.”
Sasha