“What is happening?"
“Nothing,” the Judge said. “This temporary existence is at an end. Chaos returns, darkness falls."
“Will something take its place?"
“Perhaps. Perhaps not."
“What is written in the book about it?"
“Only what you create and I set down."
“But what does the book say?"
“If I read, it would be meaningless to you."
The darkness folded in like a shroud. The horizon became the barest ghost of itself, a thin separation of the blackness above and the blackness below. Then it vanished and there was naught but the absence of light.
“This is meaningless,” he said in the last moment before he ceased to exist.
“What is?” came the last thing he heard.
CHAMBER OF THE PRIVY COUNCIL
They were all elderly men, all sitting around an immense oak table.
Dressed in fine robes and bedecked with heavy gold chains from which hung ornate gold medallions—signifying their respective offices and posts—they sat, hatted or hooded, in wary silence, eyes shifting, each taking his neighbor's measure.
Mental wheels turned, spinning out plots and counterplots, assessing possible allies, gauging potential enemies. On the surface, there were a few bland smiles. The majority wore poker faces. Most went about their machinations calmly, coolly; one or two looked nervous.
One stroked his white beard, face forward, eyes sidling left. The man next to him met his gaze, raised an eyebrow. The first man looked away.
Someone coughed discreetly into a bony fist.
Points of candlelight glinted in dark oak paneling, richly stained and finished. It was a subdued room. A room of power. The chairs were of black crushed leather, the candlesticks of gold. The bare tabletop shone with a waxen luster.
Now and then, eyes drifted to the large empty chair at the end of the table farthest from the door.
Someone else coughed. More looks were exchanged—silent offers and counteroffers; implied claims; tacit demurrals.
Presently one of them began, “Well, I should think—"
He was interrupted by the sound of the chamber doors creaking open. A page entered and stood to one side, at attention.
“His Royal Highness, Trent, Prince of the Realms Perilous!"
Trent strode in, green cape billowing.
All rose.
“Good day, my lords."
Greetings in turn were murmured around the Council table.
All eyes were on him as he walked around the table. All took note of the resplendent finery: the silks, the ermines, the chased sword hilt in its jewel-encrusted scabbard, the sparkling gems on almost every finger. The hat was black with green trim, an enormous white plume sprouting from it.
Trent reached his place at the head of the table.
“Be seated, good my lords."
They waited till he took his seat. Then they sat. The page retreated, the doors of the chamber closed. A hushed quiet fell.
Trent looked energetically confident and completely self-sufficient. His gaze was a withering beam that swept the table. His head swiveled only slightly. He looked from side to side, back and forth, once, twice, thrice, raking the solemn array of powerful men.
Then he smiled.
“It seems we have a problem."
A minister to Trent's left rose. He bowed. “Your Royal Highness. I think I speak for all my colleagues in expressing our sincerest condolences in this, your family's hour of grief. Rest assured that we all share the pain of this most devastating and inconsolable loss, the loss not only of your dear brother, but of our liege lord and king."
Trent nodded. “Thank you, Lord Burrel. And on behalf of my family, let me say that I feel secure in the knowledge that the day-to-day handling of the affairs of state will be in competent hands during this difficult period of change and transition. You have our every confidence and faith."
Burrel bowed again. “Your Highness, my colleagues and I are ever your humble and obedient servants."
“Fine,” Trent said. “Now let's get to business. We have a boy king. A boy king wants a regent. I'm here to present the case for my taking on the job."
Burrel slowly sat as a collective exhalation went up from the table. They had all known it was coming.
Another minister rose. “Sir, if I may be permitted to speak—?"
“Please, Lord Tragg."
“I think it safe to say that Council will entertain any proposition or proposal that His Highness might wish to advance, and will, in due course, render its decision. But I beg His Highness to bear in mind that many and various considerations will be weighed in the balance before any settlement might be reached on so critical a matter as this. Such a process takes time."
Trent shook his head. “No, Lord Tragg, the Realms cannot wait. We need a king, a ruler. We have one in the person of a twelve-year-old boy, a fine boy who will one day, no doubt, make a splendid king, given the proper education and training. My lords, I fully expect that Brandon will in due course take the throne and reign, and, if he's any son of his father, there is every chance that he'll rule with a will. But that day is distant. What do we do in the meantime? There are one hundred forty-four thousand worlds to be looked after. There are a thousand worlds to govern directly, thousands more we have a hand in ruling, either through our proxies, puppets, and dupes, or through other covert means. How is all this to be done in the interim?"
“Your Highness,” Tragg said, “we have not yet come to a decision. The king is not yet three hours dead—that is to say, it has been less than that time since his body was discovered. Surely you don't think we can—"
“The decision must be made immediately,” Trent said.
“Impossible, Your Highness,” spoke the man to Tragg's right. “As Lord Tragg said, many deliberations must be made. There are many factors to be brought into the calculations. These things must be approached with some delicacy of judgment. Besides, Lord Incarnadine would have wanted it that way."
Murmurs of “Hear, hear!” around the table.
“Well-spoken, Lord Morrel,” Trent said. “Then how do you propose to deal with the situation? What happens until a regent is appointed? And what happens then?"
A man across from Tragg rose. “Your Highness. I think we are all in unspoken agreement as to the best course of action."
“Go on, Lord Baldon. What's the best course of action?"
“The Council as a whole, making up a Board of King's Regents, will govern until such time as a suitable regent is found. There is historical precedent for this. Twelve hundred years ago the untimely death of Ervoldt VII left the infant Arven his successor. The King's Council appointed various regents over the next twenty years—"
“Yes,” Trent broke in, “as a dozen factions battled for control. There was one damned palace coup after another."
“Until Arven came of age; then—"
“Baldon, don't you think it would be a good idea to avoid that kind of hugger-mugger?"
“Of course, Highness,” Lord Baldon agreed hastily. “Of course! But—” He cast his eyes around the table. “I see nothing but civilized men here. After all, these are modern times. We are not barbarians. We are not brigands. This is a democratic age."
Trent said, “But this isn't a democracy, nor should it be. The Lord of Perilous holds ultimate power. The castle is the source of all magic. One man must hold stewardship over that power. It cannot be shared. The saw about too many cooks also applies to magicians, Baldon."
“There is something to that,” said the extremely old and wizened man to Trent's immediate right.
Trent turned to him. “Thank you, Lord Yorvil."
Yorvil smiled toothlessly. “Oh, I still have a thing or two to say, even at my age, that is not completely the product of an addled brain."
“Your contributions are always welcome, I assure you. How old are you, by the way?"
“I am in my seven hundred and si
xth year, Highness."
Trent was surprised. “I had no idea. Are you quite sure you're not immortal?"
“I am happy to say that I will die this winter. The soothsayers have foretold it."
“Oh. I'm..."
“Fret not, good my lord. ‘Glad did I live and gladly die, and I laid me down with a will.’”1
[1. From a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson.]
Trent laughed. “Yorvil, you'll probably dance on my grave."
Eyes twinkling, Yorvil replied, “If so, it will be a pavane, my lord prince."
“On the contrary. I think you can still do a fine gavotte."
Yorvil chortled merrily.
The smile left Trent's face as he leaned forward, elbows on the buffed tabletop.
“Back to business. My lords, I find your plan, if you can call it that, unacceptable. The last thing this castle needs is to be thrown into a dither, a prolonged period of uncertainty fraught with internecine squabbling and general palace intrigue. That's nonsense of the first water. I won't have it."
“But, Your Highness..."
“Tragg, are you going to tell me that I'm not the heir apparent and don't have a leg to stand on? That I ought to mind my own business and get back to my trade—?"
“Oh, never, Your Highness,” Tragg protested. “Never!"
Trent sat back and chuckled. “Imagine, a prince of the realm going into trade. How positively déclassé. I guess that renders me beneath contempt. And I won't even mention my marrying a commoner!” He scanned the room once again, sizing it up. “Nevertheless...” He drifted off momentarily, then brought his attention around again. “Nevertheless, this hotel clerk is giving you an ultimatum."
All heads turned.
“Ultimatum?” Baldon said, gray brows raised almost to indignant heights.
“I might as well lay all my cards on the table. I want to rule. Hell, I've always wanted to. And now here's my chance. I want the regency, on my terms. Or..."
“Or?” Tragg said quietly.
Trent's eyes had narrowed. There was a hint of menace in them. Now they widened and a slow smile spread across his face. He sat back, lifted his left foot and rested it on the edge of the table.
“Or I'll press my claims to the throne again. Legally, this time. Through the courts."
Dismayed grumblings around the table.
Trent's grin was sly. “Oh, you don't like that, do you? Yes, years of litigation, the courts in an uproar. The expense. The uncertainty. Poor magistrates gnashing teeth in their sleep. The expense."
Morrel mopped the translucent skin of his forehead. “The barristers’ fees will eat us alive!"
“Oh yes, oh yes.” Trent's manner was airy and casual.
“Your Highness,” Baldon pleaded. “I beg of you, spare us this travail. This was all settled years ago!"
“Not by my lights. Nothing was settled except that Incarnadine was crowned and I wasn't. I didn't get so much as an invite to the coronation. Pity, I would have RSVPed and everything. Had an outfit all picked out."
It was Tragg's turn to plead. “My lord prince, we cannot have this."
“Then make me Prince Regent, and I'll lay off. It's easy."
Yorvil cackled appreciatively. Trent grinned at him.
Baldon turned to the man on his left. “Lord Hivelt, as Royal Counsel and Barrister General, how do you assess the legal merits of His Highness's claim?"
Hivelt's long hair was salt-and-pepper, though he looked not much younger than the rest of the ministers. His voice, however, was strong and resonant. “It's hard to say, my Lord. There is the fraternal twin question to be considered."
Tragg huffed. “That old chestnut! A legal chimera."
“I'm not so sure,” Hivelt said.
Baldon asked, “But how would you rate His Highness's chances for making good his claim to the throne?"
Hivelt shook his head. “Ah, that's impossible to say. He does have a prima facie case, after all—"
“Really, Hivelt!” Tragg's eyes were sharply admonitory.
Hivelt shrugged. “It's the truth. As His Highness said, it would be a long bout of litigation, probably dragging on for years. There's no telling which way it would come out. Eventually, he might very well succeed in wresting the throne from Prince Brandon."
Expressions of chagrin were exchanged around the table.
Baldon leaned forward. “Your Highness, you spoke of terms?"
Trent answered, “Yes. Conditions under which I will take the job. The term of regency will extend beyond Brandon's attainment of majority. In other words, he won't be crowned until..."
Trent broke off and laughed again.
“Yes, Highness,” Tragg urged. “Until ... ?"
“Well, until I either croak or get tired of the whole mess and abdicate ... uh, step down. Then Brandon becomes Lord of Perilous and king of the realms therein."
Outrageous was the word most whispered around the table.
“Oh, come, gentle lords,” Trent said. “I know it's a grab for power. I admit it. It's a scam, a ruse. I'll be king in all but name, not just regent. But I've been waiting for just such an opportunity all my life. Now it's here, knocking away, and I'm making my move. All legal and proper. I think I deserve the throne, and I think I was wronged by having the throne denied me. It's that simple. You may detest my methods, but my motives are pure. I simply want what is rightfully mine, what was granted me by the divine grace of the gods."
“'Legal and proper,'” Tragg scoffed. “There is a term for what you are about."
“Oh, I'm not afraid of the word. One man's blackmail is another's friendly persuasion. Sure, I'm railroading you. But you guys ... pardon my lapsing into cant. You're all past masters at the art of strong-arming. You wouldn't be in the positions you're in if you weren't. Why this sudden pretense of being shocked when the wrestling match starts going against you?"
“With respect, I object to your choice of metaphor."
Trent took his foot from the table. “Forget the rhetorical devices. I'm making you an offer you shouldn't refuse. I'll settle for a souped-up regency in exchange for signing papers to the effect that I relinquish all claims to the Siege Perilous, in perpetuity, in aeternum, et cetera. Do we have a deal?"
At the end of his patience, Tragg protested, “His Highness wants both sides of his bread buttered. He wants us to choose between making him king de facto and entertaining his pretensions to kingship de jure. In short, make him king now or wait till he outmaneuvers us and steals the throne later. Sir, we are damned if we do or don't!"
“Damned right. That's it in the proverbial nutshell. I have you guys over a barrel and you know it."
Yorvil cackled fiendishly, slapping the table.
Trent looked at him, amused.
Hivelt surveyed the room, tallying silent assent. “My lords, shall we all say that we'll take it into consideration?"
Tragg's fist hit the table. “I'll not stand for it!"
Hivelt sighed. “One objection, then. Any others?"
“I want an answer soon,” Trent said.
“Surely, sir, you'll let us consult in private before—"
“Of course, of course.” Trent's smile suddenly left him. “About the coroner's inquest..."
“There will be no autopsy,” Hivelt said.
“Huh? Why?"
“Canon law. No mutilation of the king's body is permitted."
“Not even when there's some question as to the cause of death?"
“No. Under no circumstances."
“What does Dr. Mirabilis think the cause of death was?"
“He will make a preliminary post mortem report in a few hours. However, he's limited in what he can do."
“Has he said anything? Guesses?"
“He did say something about heart failure."
Trent snorted. “That's a big help."
“We'll know eventually,” Hivelt said, shrugging. “Mirabilis says he has plenty of non-intrusive procedures."
&nb
sp; “Well, that's something."
“His Highness's solicitude concerning his brother is most touching,” Tragg said. The irony fairly oozed.
Trent's manner had undergone a rapid change. He looked uneasy. But he managed a crooked grin. “Tragg, that was right over the plate. Not your usual breaking ball. Why don't you come right out and say I had him murdered?"
“Again, His Highness's choice of metaphor eludes me.” Tragg sniffed.
Baldon intervened, “I'm sure Lord Tragg means no such imputation."
“I know he does. But no matter. My lords, I must leave. Uh, one thing more. The funeral."
“A grand state funeral, of course, Highness."
Trent nodded. “Yeah, with all the trimmings, I expect. When?"
“According to canon law, the body must lie in state for ten days—"
“Ten days? Preposterous. And I'll bet no embalming is allowed either."
“Correct, Highness. But a spell of preservation will be cast."
“Right,” Trent answered dubiously. “Still, ten days..."
Baldon raised his hands in helpless appeal. “There is no relief from canon law. Am I not right, Renalto?"
The small man next to Baldon nodded. “As Minister Plenipotentiary for Religious Affairs, it is my duty to see that canon law is obeyed to the letter. I shall do so."
“Very well,” Trent said. “I'll not object to any of the mummery if I get a quick reply to my proposal."
Hivelt said, “I think we have a deal on that, at least. We ... Your Royal Highness, is anything wrong?"
A rivulet of sweat was making its way down the line of Trent's jaw. He gave his head a brisk shake. “Not a thing. I have to go. Messenger your decision to me as soon as possible."
“You will be where, sir?"
“Club Sheila. I must leave the castle for a while, but I'll be back."
Trent got up and strode out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.
Baldon said, “The curse. He can't stay in the castle for long."
“And he wants to be king!” Tragg looked around. “Will no one back me?"
“Back you in what?” Hivelt said.
“In thwarting the bastard, of course!"
Lord Renalto put his fingers to his lips. “Tragg, curb your tongue!"
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