The Eyes of the Dragon - Stephen King [71]
Arlen, looking much chastened, appeared almost at once.
"Is Beson still here?" Peyna asked.
"I think so, sir," Arlen said. In fact he knew Beson was still there, because he had been peeking through the keyhole at the man, watching him lurch back and forth restlessly from one end of the servants' kitchen to the other with a cold chicken leg clutched like a club in one hand. When the meat on the leg was all gone, Beson had crunched the bones-horrible splintering sounds they made-and sucked contentedly at the marrow.
Arlen was still not utterly convinced the man was not a dwarf perhaps even a troll.
"Give him this," Peyna said, handing Arlen the note, "and this for his trouble." Two guilders clinked into Arlen's other hand. "Tell him there may be a reply. If so, he's to bring it at night, as he did this one."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Don't linger and chat with him, either," Peyna said. It was as close as he was able to come to making a joke.
"No, my Lord," Arlen said glumly, and went out. He was still thinking of the crunching sounds the chicken bones had made when Beson bit through them.
Here," Beson said grumpily when he came into Peters cell the next day, thrusting the envelope at Peter. In truth, he felt grumpy. The two guilders handed to him by Arlen had been an unexpected windfall, and Beson had spent most of the night drinking it up. Two guilders bought a great lot of mead, and today his head felt large and very painful. "Damned messenger boy is what I'm turning into."
"Thank you," Peter said, holding the envelope.
"Well? Ain'tcher going to open it?"
"Yes. When you leave."
Beson bared his teeth and clenched his fists. Peter simply stood there, looking at him. After a moment, Beson lowered his fists. "Damned messenger boy, is all!" he repeated, and went out, slamming the heavy door behind him. There was the thud of iron locks being turned, followed by the sliding sound of bolts, -three of them, each as thick as Peter's wrist-being slid into place.
When the sounds had stopped, Peter opened the note. It was only three sentences long.
I am aware of the long-standing customs of which you speak. The sum you mentioned could be arranged. I will do so, but not until I know what favors you expect to buy from our mutual friend.
Peter smiled. Judge-General Peyna was not a sly man-slyness was not at all in his nature, as it was in Flagg's -but he was exceedingly careful. This note was the proof of that. Peter had expected Peyna's condition. He would have felt wary if Peyna had not asked what he wanted. Ben would be the go-between, Peyna would cease to actually be a part of the bribe very shortly, but still he walked carefully, as a man might walk on loose stones which might slide out from under his feet at any moment.
Peter went to the door of his cell, rapped, and after some conversation with Beson, was given the inkpot and dirty quill pen again. Beson did more muttering about being nothing but a damned messenger boy, but he was not really unhappy about the situation. There might be another two guilders in this for him.
"If them two write back and forth long enough, I guess I could get rich after it," he said to no one at all, and roared laughter in spite of his aching head.
Peyna unfolded Peter's second note and saw that this time the prince had left off both of their names. That was very well. The boy learned fast. As he read the note itself, his eyebrows shot up.
Perhaps your request to know my business is presumptuous, perhaps not. It matters little, since I am at your mercy. Here are the two things your eight guilders per year are to purchase:
I want to have my mother's dollhouse. It always took me to pleasant places and pleasant adventures, and I loved it much as a boy.
I would like to have a napkin brought with my meals-a proper royal napkin. The crest may be removed,