Bad Prince Charlie

by Moore, John

  “I’ll remember that, sir. Now what about food? The situation is getting dire. There won’t be much time.”

  “No fear. The grain wagons will be right behind the troops.” Fortescue chuckled. “We’re bringing it in on military supply wagons, at first, and issuing the troops with extra rations to distribute. It creates the impression that the soldiers are sharing their own food with the civilians. Then the population feels more kindly toward their occupiers.”

  “Clever,” Charlie agreed. He didn’t care much how the people felt about their rulers as long as they didn’t feel hungry. “Then I think it’s just a question of playing our game out to the end.”

  Fortescue nodded. “Of course, there’s also the issue of the WMD.”

  “Ah,” said Charlie. He nodded, as though the general’s words had not taken him by complete surprise. “Well, I do admit that I’m not quite . . . not quite certain how a WMD fits into all this.”

  And he thought, Be careful, Charlie. You nearly confirmed to him that we have a Weapon of Magical Destruction. Fortescue’s been at this game a lot longer than you have. That’s why he contrived to meet you when your uncles weren’t around. Packard and Gregory wouldn’t have made slip like that. He wondered how Fortescue had learned about it. From Xiao? But Fortescue must have known about it before he came.

  Still, it put him on his guard. “I mean,” he continued, “the whole point of this charade is to avoid a war. We want to minimize fighting. Avoid it all together, if we can. So I don’t see that there’s any need to bring in a WMD.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Fortescue heartily. “We want minimum casualties all the way around. A little insurrection, a show of force, parade the troops, we look the other way while you flee the country, and then we get to work on reunification. As long as the weapon is surrendered peacefully, I don’t anticipate any problems.”

  “Yes, right.” It seemed to Charlie that the room had gotten chillier. “Uh, General? You seem pretty well convinced that we actually have a Weapon of Magical Destruction.”

  Fortescue chuckled again and poured himself another glass of port. “You’re not going to try to hold out on me, are you, Your Highness? That would only cause trouble for everyone.”

  “No, I wasn’t going to hold out on you.”

  “My people have been very concerned about this. A lot of sorcerers in a lot of kingdoms have spent decades trying to trigger large-scale magical reactions. None of them ever achieved the slightest bit of success. But all of ours agreed that if anyone could do it, it would be Thessalonius.

  “Then the man withdraws into seclusion. His assistants take over his day-to-day work. He orders a bunch of strange supplies—materials that our people say could only be used for a WMD. And finally he disappears. Now what are we supposed to think?”

  Dammit! Fortescue, Charlie realized, was telling him that Noile had spies in Damask, probably right in Damask Castle, and Charlie had better not try to bluff him. “Thessalonius might have taken a holiday.”

  “Oh, it’s all just guesswork and circumstantial evidence, I admit. We probably wouldn’t worry so much if you hadn’t come into the picture.”

  “Me?” Charlie was becoming more confused by the minute.

  “Your reputation for cruelty has preceded you. After all, you are Bad Prince Charlie.”

  “I can explain that,” said Charlie hurriedly. “The truth is that I asked her if she wanted dessert and she said, ‘No, I’ll just have a bite of yours.’ So I ordered . . .”

  “The mere thought that you might have access to a WMD has been keeping a lot of people awake at night. If I didn’t believe that you would turn over the WMD, I would have to take it by force. At the very least, I would have to launch a preemptive attack to prevent you from using it first.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” At once Charlie understood why his father had hidden the WMD, and why Thessalonius, if he was still alive, had gone into hiding. Did Damask have spies in Noile? It had never occurred to him to ask his uncles. “But I can understand your concern. That’s why I think the best course of action would be for Damask to destroy the WMD. Then neither side would have to worry about it being used against them.”

  The general apparently found this amusing. He responded with yet another hearty chuckle. Charlie, who always did have a low threshold of irritability, was starting to find them annoying. He wondered how much port Fortescue had drunk. Charlie’s personal point of view was that a man should be clearheaded and sober when making decisions that might require killing large numbers of people.

  Fortescue refilled his glass yet again. “A most interesting idea, Your Highness. But surely you don’t need to be told that the capture of your Weapon of Magical Destruction is really the whole point of this exercise? It is, in fact, the keystone of my future plans.”

  “It is?” Charlie decided that, diplomacy-wise, he was playing out of his league. He resolved to cut the meeting short at the first opportunity, before he agreed to something he didn’t want to agree to. “I thought the point of this exercise was to reunify Damask and Noile without the nobility kicking up a fuss about losing their independence.”

  “Damask will be a burden to Noile. It occupies no strategic position, it can’t support itself without aid, its leaders tend to be selfish, corrupt, and shortsighted even by the standards of nobility. And even a small occupying force will be costly. And a diversion of men and materials that I can better use elsewhere. Only the capture of the WMD makes this exercise worthwhile.”

  “I see,” said Charlie, who was not sure that he did.

  “Now, if your uncles had simply sold it to me, they would have looked very bad when the time came to put it to use. They would have been thoroughly vilified. It would have been impossible for them to live in Damask. But if the weapon is captured, you see, then no one is to blame. Oh, you will get blamed a little, but then you’re not the type to worry about your reputation, are you?”

  “But why would you put it to use?” Charlie strove to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Noile has been pacified. Damask is being turned over to you. Who would you . . .”

  “This is the chance of a lifetime, Charlie.” Fortescue dropped the formal title. He stood up, grabbed the port, and drank deeply from the bottle. “This is a time when history will be made. The bordering states cannot risk their people against such a weapon. We will expand our territory, far beyond what has ever been dreamt before. It will be the birth of a new century for Noile. Our children and grandchildren will thank us for this.”

  Oh no, thought the prince. Not another one. Not another megalomaniac bent on conquest. What was it about these military types? Did all that saluting and close-order drill do something to their brains?

  His expression must have made his thoughts clear to Fortescue, for the general caught his look and immediately began to backpedal. “Not that we’ll ever actually use it,” he hastened to reassure Charlie. “Certainly not. That would be terrible. We’ll explain to our enemies that it would only be used as a last-ditch defensive measure, to prevent them from attacking us. Especially after we’ve attacked them first. Maybe we’d have to detonate one to prove we actually have it. And that we have the will to use it. Possibly a second one, to show them we can make more. But certainly no more than two. That assumes that once we have Thessalonius’s WMD, we can duplicate it. But our sorcerers are confident of that.”

  “Sure,” said Charlie. “Sure. But, you know, I don’t think this WMD is really suitable for that kind of strategic defense. I’m not totally sure of my facts here, but Dad kind of explained to me that it was tricky and unreliable—and very expensive to maintain, he said—and really it would be better to just bury it somewhere and forget about it. Poor design, he said. Stay away from it.”

  “Ah yes.” Fortescue gave Charlie a sympathetic smile. “We heard about this. Your father told you all about it, you say? You’ve been taking advice from ghosts?”

  There was something in his tone of voice
that put Charlie on the defensive. “It’s a complicated world, General. And there are more things in it than can be explained by mere philosophy.”

  Fortescue moved aside a stack of paper to reveal a textbook. Charlie read the title upside down—Introduction to Natural Philosophy. The general flipped the book open and ran his finger down an index page. “ ‘Ghosts,’ ” he read. “ ‘Explanation of.’ ”

  “Um, I was speaking figuratively.”

  Fortescue was still looking up the entry. He spoke absently. “With the WMD I’ll consolidate my power, and, of course, my marriage to Catherine will resolve any remaining political considerations. Then . . .”

  “Catherine?”

  “Lady Catherine Durace. My fiancée. Surely she told you.”

  Muscles were knotting up in Charlie’s neck. His left hand, still holding the goblet of port, grew white around the knuckles. “You’re engaged to Lady Catherine Durace? Engaged to be married?”

  “Hmmm? Oh yes. Her own idea, I understand. I must say I didn’t think highly of the plan—I’m not really the marrying kind, although I’m told she is quite attractive—but her family made it clear that it was necessary to insure their support.”

  “Really.” The knotted muscles had moved up from the prince’s neck to his jaw.

  “There have always been those troublemakers who call me a usurper, who don’t appreciate what I’ve done for Noile. But as the House of Durace is in the line of succession for both Noile and Damask, this should quiet that sort of talk. A few people may have to be executed for treason, but that’s a small price to pay for security.”

  Charlie stood up. “Nice meeting you, General Fortescue. I must leave. Dentist appointment. I totally forgot about it.” He brushed past the blackout curtain, shoved open the door to the corridor and walked quickly to the outside exit. Halfway there he broke into a run. Outside he blinked in the harsh, cold light. He had to stand still for a minute to let his eyes adjust. Then he ran toward the stables, where he saw a pair of monks tending his horses. They stood back and stared at him as he threw on the saddles, fixed the harnesses, and took off, with the horses’ hooves throwing little showers of pebbles. And he rode in a hot, bright fury all the way back to Damask.

  The warm summer day was fading to a still summer night. Intermittently a puff of breeze stirred the flags over Damask Castle, but mostly they hung limp until the color guards lowered them, and the laundry hanging outside the washhouse dripped silently without flapping. In the east block, a room full of senior officials grew murky, despite the open windows, as they puffed on their long clay pipes, discussed the issues of the day, and took advantage of the still air to blow smoke rings. In the wizard’s tower, Jeremy practiced with an illustrated monograph and a small pipe of his own, trying to teach himself to blow the fancy shapes that wizards are expected to produce. Evelyn and Tweezy, in the supportive manner of apprentices everywhere, helped by making insolent remarks. Over the kitchens, the smoke from the chimneys rose straight into the sky, while down in the courtyard, the lamplighter was having a particularly easy time of it getting his wicks to ignite. He did not see a hooded figure cross the courtyard behind him and slide quietly into a stairwell.

  The role of Faithful Family Retainer put Pollocks in a convenient position. He carried enough rank, and was close enough to the throne, that he could be introduced at court. Yet the job required enough personal service that no one would think it unusual to see him going up a service stairs. Although when going about this particular errand, he had always been careful not to let himself be seen.

  The pigeon lay quietly in an inside pocket of his coat. The new breeds, he often reflected, were amazing birds. In the hand they were quiet and docile, easy to conceal. You could walk right through a crowded meeting with one under your jacket and no one would be the wiser. Once in flight they were amazingly fast. The first time he had been given a carrier pigeon, Pollocks had worried that hawks would get it. The mountains were full of hawks. But ninety percent of the birds got through. And these newest breeds would even fly at night.

  He went up the central tower. There were small windows that let in the fading light, but when he was on the opposite side of the tower from the setting sun, he had to feel his way along carefully. There was little risk here—it was a relatively modern castle, as castles go, not some crumbling old structure, and the stairs were uniform and well made. Sending the message, Pollocks considered, was not the dangerous part. The dangerous part was writing the message. He wrote them out first in longhand, and when he was satisfied that they were tightly written, concise, and correctly spelled, he copied them onto a rice paper strip, and rolled it up, and wedged it into the message capsule, and then burnt the original in the grate. Even though he locked the door, he knew there were maids and guards and other people who had passkeys. He was always fearful that someone would come in and wonder why he was burning papers. He never relaxed until that part was done.

  He rounded a corner. It was a relief to get back into the sun, even when there was not much left. He paused on a landing, one that had a small, locked door. On the other side, he knew, was a small balcony that overlooked the east wall. He would have to move quickly, once the door was open, lest anyone below look up. They would be looking into the setting sun, so that light would help conceal him, but still he didn’t want to reveal himself longer than absolutely necessary. From his left outer pocket he took an iron key and unlocked the door. From his right inside pocket he took the pigeon. He nestled it against his chest and stroked it for a moment, admiring its graceful form. This one was named Tomaso, from a character in a Bard-well drama, a part Pollocks had once played in his youth. But Pollocks hadn’t named it. They were already named when they came to him. All carrier pigeons had names, like racehorses. What baffled Pollocks were the breeds. He had been told this was a dark checkered pied white cock. Indeed it was dark and checkered, so how could it be pied and white?

  No matter. Against a darkening sky it would be impossible to see. Pollocks checked that the message capsule was secure on its leg and stroked it one more time. It cooed almost inaudibly and fluffed its feathers. He turned the key in the door, pushed it open a sliver, and put his eye to the crack. The balcony was deserted. All looked clear without.

  But behind him there was suddenly the sound of metal sliding against metal, and the stairwell burst into brightness as dark lanterns were opened. This was followed by the slick hiss of metal against leather as swords were drawn. Pollocks didn’t even turn around. “Damn,” was all he said, as he shoved the door open and flung the pigeon into the night.

  “Damit! Stop him,” called a familiar voice, and Pollocks heard behind him a clatter of footsteps up the stairs. At the same time another familiar voice ordered, “Get him!” and there was a clatter of footsteps down the stairs. Two men shoved past Pollocks at nearly the same time, and stumbled onto the balcony, where they stared into the sky. The pigeon had already vanished.

  “Falconers,” said Packard. “Send for the falconers. Get the peregrines after it.”

  Gregory shook his head. “They don’t fly at night. Let it go. It doesn’t matter now. We don’t need the message.” He turned around and looked at Pollocks. “We have him.”

  Catherine had an explanation for Charlie. Catherine always had an explanation for Charlie. She toyed with some needlework and looked up at him with mild surprise. “Oh, Charlie, didn’t Packard and Gregory explain that to you? I am so sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “No,” snapped Charlie. “They didn’t. And I didn’t.” The prince was pacing rapidly back and forth across her salon, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clenched tightly at his side.

  “Oh dear. I can see how this must have come as a shock to you. But yes, I was betrothed to Bradley some time ago.”

  “Bradley! Who the hell is Bradley?”

  “General Fortescue.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It is a political marriage, of course.” Catherine rose and tried t
o take Charlie’s hand. He pushed her away. “But it is so important, Charlie, for a stable reunification. It will give legitimacy to Fortescue’s rule and that will make things so much easier for us.”

  “For us?”

  “Bradley and myself.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Charlie. The sun was setting and the lamps had not yet been lit. His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was harsh and unyielding. “I don’t like the way any of this is going. Secret weapons and secret meetings and secret engagements. I didn’t agree to any of this.” He slammed his free hand on a table. “All those talks we had about meeting in Noile after this was over, and you never mentioned you were betrothed. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Oh, Charlie.” Catherine spoke as though a great light had suddenly dawned on her. “I didn’t realize. Charlie, did you have expectations for us?”

  The prince glared at her. He didn’t answer.

  Catherine stood next to him and put her arm in his. This time he yielded. She put her other hand up to gently brush his cheek. “You poor boy. You must feel terrible. Oh, how you must think I misled you. It’s all my fault.” She looked into his face. A tear slowly welled up in each of her eyes. “Charlie, can you ever forgive me?”

  Charlie suddenly shoved her away. She lost her balance and fell down. “Charlie!”

  “Quiet,” snapped the prince. He drew his sword and whirled around the darkening room. “Who was that?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard a noise. Who else is here?”

  “No one is here. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Someone is spying on us! There, behind the curtain!”

  “No one is behind the curtain . . . Charlie!”

  The prince drove the point of his sword through the draperies. He pulled it back viciously and stabbed again, and then a third time. At the third thrust he threw his sword on the floor and surveyed the curtain with grim satisfaction. Catherine shrieked and pushed his aside. “Have you gone mad? Do you realize what you’ve done?” She grabbed a handful of cloth and stared at the rents in horror. “Charlie, this is hand-tatted lace!”