A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist

by Ron Miller

  “Well,” that person is continuing, “the thing to do is to decide exactly what we must, ah, heeeeeee, do.”

  “Payne must be stopped at all costs!”

  “Well, now, my dear, that’s easy enough to say. I’m certainly sympathetic with you, and I agree that something must be done, but there are many considerations. Many. King Ferenc is my brother, after all, and you and your, ah, brother are my niece and nephew, but Tamlaght is still a sovereign state. I simply can’t order my army to march into it and assassinate Payne Roelt.”

  “But why not? he deserves it!”

  “No doubt! For his treatment of you, if for no other reason, and I daresay my advisors would consider that reason enough. Nevertheless, I must confer with them. Protocol must be followed, especially in a time like this.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I’ve no idea. Please be patient just a little longer; I promise it won’t take any more time than absolutely necessary.”

  “I’ve never been very patient, Uncle.”

  “Maybe, maybe . . . but you must be, now.”

  “It’s just that I can’t stand not knowing what’s going to happen!”

  “Is it the not-knowing, or the uncertainty? In any case, my dear niece, even though Musrum Himself may suspect what the future holds, He still cannot guarantee it.”

  Although not entirely satisfied with that answer, Bronwyn allows herself to be dismissed, as the physicians reattach the king to his life-support system. The soft boof boof of the bellows has already begun as the door shuts behind her.

  Gyven is waiting for her in the antechamber.

  “Good afternoon, Princess,” he says in the distant, vaguely disinterested tone that irritates her so much.

  “Good afternoon,” she replies, equally distant. “Have you seen Thud?”

  “No. Princess, there is something that I must discuss with you.”

  “I’ve no doubt but that you do.”

  “It’s about the promise you made to King Slagelse.”

  “What about it?”

  “I had hoped that I would not need to remind you that you had promised to deliver me to the faeries.”

  “I did no such thing! I only promised to take you as far as Londeac! Well, here you are. What more do you want?”

  “I want you to take me as far as the faerie kingdom. As you promised.”

  “I tell you I made no such promise. Besides, I haven’t the slightest idea where the faeries are, let alone their ‘kingdom.’”

  “I won’t leave you until you take me there.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that I’d consider that more than enough incentive if there is anything I could do about it. However, I can’t, so if that’s what you intend to do, then I suppose that I’ll just have to bear the burden of your company as best I can. If you’ll excuse me, I want to find Thud.”

  She turns her back on the unsurprisingly stony-faced Gyven and strides lengthily down the long corridors to her apartment.

  Although it really isn’t necessary, since plenty of sunlight is pouring into the room through ranks of tall windows, Bronwyn throws a small switch mounted on the wall near the door. The room is immediately flooded with a brilliant white light that outshines even that of the sun. This emanates from a large glass globe suspended from the center of the ceiling, inside which carbon elements buzz ecstatically under the influence of the powerful electric current. Gyven had embarrassed the princess when they are first presented their rooms, when she discovered him observing her with a supercilious smirk as she had been flicking the switch on and off in amazement as the first electrical light she had ever seen blazed and went dark at her touch.

  The palace is filled with similar wonders: she discovered to her delight that hot or cold water is available from taps in her bathroom, which also boast a water closet (and every apartment, she learned to her increasing wonderment, had its very own), and she had thought that a row of ivory buttons, each with an engraved label beneath (“valet,” “maid,” “kitchen,” etc.), is enigmatically decorative until it is pointed out to her that by pressing the appropriate button she could signal the desired person or service. Astonishing. She had discovered that the half-dozen floors of the palace are connected at several points by hydraulic lifts. The effect of stepping into a small room, closing its door, and then reopening that door onto an entirely different room seemed almost like magic. She rode it up and down until the butler is forced to gently ask her to refrain.

  Thud had his own apartment, adjoining Bronwyn’s, which she now enters by way of the connecting door. Thud is standing in front of his window, or, to be more exact, he is standing in front of two and a half windows. He turns when he hears Bronwyn enter (since, naturally, she had not seen any need for knocking) and one of his almost frighteningly impossible grins splits his head into almost equal halves, like a grapefruit, which it closely resembles both in size and shape.

  “Hello, Princess.”

  “Hello, Thud.” She herself into one of the room’s comfortably padded chairs. “I’m so frustrated I don’t know what to do. After everything I’ve gone through to get here, all my uncle can do is tell me to wait. I don’t see how wasting any more time is going to accomplish anything.”

  “Mm.”

  “I simply can’t stand not knowing. Unless I know how something is going to happen and who is going to do it and when, it’s the same to me as though it aren’t going to happen at all. I’ve always taken ‘maybe’ for ‘no’ and ‘we’ll see’ for ‘never.’”

  “Mm.”

  “There are worse places to have to vegetate, I suppose, and I’d only be driving myself mad if I sat around and brooded over things I obviously have no control over. And I guess that I have been enjoying myself.” She draws her knees up to her chest and leans her head back against the chair. “I never dreamed Londeac is such an amazing country! I’d read about some of these things, but they somehow just never seemed very real. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Mm.”

  “Maybe I’m just feeling guilty for being distracted by these things, for enjoying myself at all. But it all seems so fantastic: there’re machines for doing just about everything. When I’d read about such things I always imagined them as part of some far-off future, not things I’d ever see.”

  “Mm.”

  “What in the world is so interesting?” she asks with some exasperation, joining him at the remaining half window, then cries, “Holy Musrum! What’s that?”

  A dark sphere is drifting across the sky. It is about the same angular size as either the sun or the smaller moon; that is, about half a degree. Seen against the bright blue, it looks as though a hole has been punched in the sky.

  “I don’t know,” answers Thud, unnecessarily.

  Bronwyn peers intently at the uncanny object. A dim highlight reveals that it is indeed a sphere, and there appears to be a small object suspended below it. The latter moves along with its larger companion at the same leisurely rate, maintaining a constant distance, but whether they are actually connected physically she can not tell. After a few moments, the mysterious apparition passes within a cloud and vanishes from their sight.

  “I have no idea what that could’ve been, Thud,” she says, turning from the window. Then she notices that she is trembling and realizes that the uncanny object had actually frightened her. “Well,” she says, trying to keep her voice under control, “there’re a lot of very peculiar things about Londeac that we’ll just have to get used to. These artificial lamps, for example.” Not very adroitly changing the subject, she goes to the wall and causes the ceiling fixture to illuminate the room brilliantly. “Aren’t they marvellous?”

  “I suppose so,” replies Thud calmly.

  “Oh, Thud! Doesn’t it amaze you that you can turn these lamps on and off with just this little switch?”

  “Isn’t that the way they’re supposed to work?”

  “Of course! But . . . forget it, Thud.”

  “A
ll right,” he answers dutifully, forgetting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE VILLAINS HAVE DIFFICULTIES

  “What’s this?” asks Payne Roelt, waving a heavy piece of paper under the distinctly retroussé nose of King Ferenc. Ferenc is not responsible for the shape of his nose, nor for the consequence that when he tries to wriggle it out of the way of the paper it looks as though he is smelling something bad.

  “What?” he replies.

  “This! you ninny! What did you think ‘what?’”

  “Ah . . . what?”

  “I’m talking about this letter!”

  “All right, all right! I just didn’t know what what you wanted.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what, Payne?”

  “Do you have to be so confoundedly stupid?”

  “I don’t understand, Payne,” says the king, obviously hurt. “Why do you have to talk to me like that?”

  “It’s a compulsion, Ferenc. You inspire me.”

  “Do I really?” Ferenc replies brightly, but only in a figurative sense, of course.

  Payne looks at his king with the same sort of expression anyone else might use when seeing an insect with two or three of its legs missing. The six months since Ferenc’s coronation have seen substantial changes in the two men. The new king has grown softer and more stupid, if possible; he increasingly resembles a monstrously overgrown baby, as though he was merely the pupa stage of some vast, cow-like animal, perhaps a walrus or manatee. On the other hand, Payne’s reptilian intelligence has increased in direct proportion to his covetousness. His eyes burn with a kind of hyperspectral luminosity, as though they are emitting ultra-violet light or X-rays. He seems never to blink, which may have been no illusion since his lusterless eyeballs actually do appear to be dry. The wealth he has accumulated in just the short time since the coronation is, even for him, almost incalculable. It is a matter of some irritation that he does not have an exact accounting . . . he would very much like to know precisely how wealthy he is at any one moment, or even from moment to moment if that are possible. It is not what wealth can buy that is important to Payne, it is entirely possible that its true value means little and that he would collect poenigs as avidly as crowns, if that is all that was available, but rather the possession alone is sufficient. He simply liked to accumulate money. Therefore, the knowledge of how much he has, to the fraction of a poenig, is of great importance . . . it is the whole point, in fact. Round numbers are not satisfying; he prefers his numbers nice and crisp, with sharp well-defined edges. He glances at the now-crumpled paper in his hand. Another distraction.

  “It’s an invitation from your Uncle Felix.”

  Ferenc looks up from the cigarette tip he has been contemplating, or has been mesmerized by. “Uncle Felix?”

  “You do remember that you have an uncle?”

  “Of course; I was just expressing surprise.”

  “He’s inviting you to visit him in Toth.”

  “Toth?”

  “The capital of Londeac.”

  “Yes, yes, I know what it’s the capital of! But why’s he inviting me to visit? I haven’t seen him since I is a little boy. I can barely remember him.”

  “It is rather sudden, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I am king now. Perhaps he’s just being polite. A courtesy call, you know?”

  “Except that he’s asking you to do the calling.”

  “Well, he must be an awfully old man by now. Maybe he can’t travel.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re the most suspicious person I’ve ever met.”

  “No, just the most intelligent.”

  “Well, I can’t simply refuse to go.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Payne says, then, sotto voce: “I’d like to get General Praxx’s opinion about this.”

  “Praxx?” squeaked the king, dribbling ashes down his vest. “Must we?”

  “There’s something about this invitation that doesn’t feel right. I’d like to hear what he has to say about it. Praxx has a much better feel about things like this than I do.”

  “Oh, Musrum! Do I have to be here when he comes?”

  “To be truthful, I’d rather you aren’t.”

  “Why not? I have every right to be here!”

  “You’re unbelievable, Ferenc.”

  “Why, thank you,” replies the king, with a smirk.

  Payne looks at the young king with an expression that, on anyone else, might have been pity. Without saying anything else, he pulls a bellrope, in almost instantaneous answer to which appears a servant. Payne sends him off to fetch the general.

  Ferenc manages to consume another half-dozen cigarettes in the few minutes it takes before Praxx glides silently into the smoky room, as though on well-oiled wheels.

  “Your Highness,” he peremptorily acknowledges, but bows toward the other. “Lord Roelt.”

  The king says nothing, but only puffs faster, his portly figure gradually transforming into a cloud of acrid smoke, like a whale retreating into its lightless abyss.

  “Take a look at this,” says Payne, handing Praxx Felix’s letter. The general reads it carefully twice, then returns it to the Chamberlain.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s a pretty transparent trap, I’d say,” replies the general.

  “That’s what I suspected, but what’s the motive behind it? What could its purpose be?”

  “I wouldn’t venture to say.”

  “No one’s heard from King Felix in years; why this sudden interest in his nephew?”

  “He wasn’t able to attend the coronation; perhaps he’s making up for that omission.”

  “You can’t believe that . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  “ . . . the timing’s all wrong. This thing just doesn’t ring true.”

  “I agree. One thing, however, is both obvious and imperative.”

  “And that is?”

  “That under no circumstances should Ferenc be allowed to leave the country . . . certainly not until we discover what this is all about.”

  “We have to respond to this invitation in some way.”

  “We need to delay, to gain enough time to discover whether or not this invitation is legitimate . . . and if not, what’s behind it. In the meantime, I’d suggest we send an emissary.”

  “Emissary?”

  “Under some official pretext or another . . . perhaps an assistant consul would do. Yes, that’d be a good choice; he would have access to both the palace and the king. A good man could easily ferret out what’s really going on.”

  “So what do we tell Felix in the meantime?”

  “Oh, anything. It doesn’t matter. The man is half senile as it is. Tell him that Ferenc has the plague and that the palace has been quarantined. That’d do.”

  “Plague?” comes a whine from within an opaque cloud of smoke. “What’s this about plague?”

  “Oh, Musrum!” curses Payne, who had actually forgotten the king’s presence. “It’s nothing, your Highness.”

  “Stop treating me like a child! I heard you talking!” The king comes toward the plotters, his soft bulk emerging like a dirigible from the smoky cloud.

  “Let me handle this,” Praxx says to Payne; then to the king: “We hoped not to worry you, your Highness, but we seem to have uncovered a plot against you.”

  “Plot? Plot?” he shrilled, his normally tallow-colored face turning as dead white as a porcelain toilet and as beaded with cold sweat. “What kind of plot?”

  “Perhaps an attempt at . . . assassination!”

  “Assassination? Me? Whatever for?”

  “There’s no explaining the mind of a fanatic, your Highness.”

  “It is kind of thrilling, in a way, you know? I mean, no one actually wants people shooting at them or anything, but it does make one feel rather important, you know? Why, just look at me! I’m all aquiver!”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “Who could it poss
ibly be?”

  “We’re trying to find that out now, your Highness . . . possibly some radical political underground.”

  “You think so? Really?”

  “It’s not un-likely.”

  “It’s so weird thinking that there’s someone out there who . . . who . . . wants to kill me!” He shivers violently, spraying cigarette ash down the front of Praxx’s hitherto immaculate uniform. “Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “Only with difficulty,” lies Payne, who has entertained the thought perhaps fifty or fifty-five times.

  “You are planning to do something about it?”

  “Of course. That’s exactly what the general and I are just discussing.”

  “Excellent! Just what are you going to do, then?”

  “Well, your Highness,” says Praxx, “we’re sending a spy . . .”

  “A spy? How wonderful! Really? An actual spy?”

  “Yes. I’m glad you approve of the idea. We’re sending an, um, spy to Londeac to try and discover, ah, who’s behind this, ah, plot to kill you.”

  “Londeac? Why Londeac?”

  “That’s where this invitation came from.”

  “The invitation from Uncle Felix? What does that have to do with assassins?”

  “General Praxx and I have reason to doubt the authenticity of this invitation, your Highness. We feel it may be a trap.”

  “A trap? Holy Musrum! This is indeed thrilling!” The king lights another cigarette from the butt of the old one. His hands shake so badly that the cigarette makes an acute bend toward his nose, which is so retroussé that he takes no notice.

  “Yes. We need to find out whether or not the invitation is genuine.”

  “Well! By all means, go ahead!”

  “Thank you, your Highness. Praxx, you’ll handle this?”

  “Just a moment,” interrupted the king.

  “What is it?”

  “What about the plague?”

  “What plague?”

  “The plague that you and the general are talking about?”