by Ron Miller
“There’s no pla, . . .” begins Payne, but Praxx interrupts.
“Yes, yes, your Highness, I remember. We are just discussing possible means by which your assassination might be accomplished.”
“You mean, someone might give me the plague? That’s fiendish!”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Oh, dear Musrum!” says the king, collapsing into a chair that competes unsuccessfully with him in overstuffedness.
“You’ll handle this?” Payne once again asks his general.
“Of course.”
“Then I leave it entirely in your capable hands.”
“Thank you, your . . . ah, Lord Roelt.”
General Praxx leaves the chamber feeling far better than he has for months. When he had learned that the Princess Bronwyn had shown up at the postcoronation ball, had threatened both Payne and the new king, and had subsequently vanished from the country, evidently in the company of the notorious Baron Sluys Milnikov, who had earlier made a sensational escape from a supposedly escape-proof prison, he had been irked beyond all expression. Two humiliatingly catastrophic events in one evening is intolerable and, what is worse, inexcusable. It had taken every ounce of his manipulative ability to maintain his position . . . Payne had been almost insanely furious over what he had considered the virtually traitorous incompetence of Praxx and his Guards. At that, he felt, and rightly, that neither he nor his organization are held in the same esteem they’d enjoyed before the coronation. Much of the general’s time during the succeeding months had been spent in diplomatically reëstablishing his position.
The king, as usual, is not difficult to handle, even less so than ever before, if anything. It appeared that once Ferenc felt that his grasp upon the throne is secure, his grasp on reality loosened; he retreated ever further into a self-indulgent fantasy world. Most recently, Praxx had been able to keep the king out of the way by arranging with the National Gallery to hold an exhibition of wax fruit. As an acknowledged major collector and authority on the subject, Ferenc was more than delighted to accept the patronage. Heading the various committees, arranging the catalog, overseeing the exhibitry: all of these important tasks kept the king busily and happily occupied from dawn to dusk.
Payne seemed to be going through metamorphoses of his own, changes the various significances of which Praxx is still uncertain. The Chamberlain was becoming almost pathologically greedy; the accumulation of wealth has become his overwhelming passion. He seems to be unaware that there might ever be any ultimate limits, or that he might be destroying the very sources of his income. Praxx is well aware that Payne’s next intended target is the Church, whose vast holdings he covets beyond all measure. Now there is a pending situation of apocalyptic potentialities!
Historically, the Church of Musrum has been, for all practical if officially unadmitted purposes, a subdepartment of the state. The Church has always supported the government, tacitly if not overtly, making palatable to the people any potentially unpopular legislation, from increased taxes to declarations of war. In return, the government turns a blind eye on how the Church and its officers conduct their business. Members of the royal family, as well as the aristocracy, have traditionally been officials of the Church, just as in turn officials of the Church have always sat in the Privy Council. Therefore, over the centuries the position of the Church has grown to be both powerful and precarious.
This new problem interests Praxx. When he reaches his office, he summons one of his agents and, while waiting for the man to arrive, gives the matter a little thought. The sudden interest of King Felix, if true, is puzzling indeed. Especially in light of what he knows about the man. The king is elderly and, as seems typical of the Tedeschiiy family at any age, more than a little dotty. Felix has not placed a foot on Tamlaghtan soil in more than fifteen years . . . the last time he had seen either Ferenc or Bronwyn they had been little more than toddlers. In all the intervening time there has been scarcely any official communication between the two countries, let alone familial. It is not really King Felix’s fault: Tamlaght’s xenophobia extends even to nations ruled by members of its own family. Well, then, why the sudden interest? It certainly does have a sinister ring to it. Payne may be growing paranoid, but he’s not mistaken in this case, Praxx is certain. At this point in the general’s thoughts, the summoned Guard arrives.
“You are Captain Bugarach?” the general asks.
“Yes. Sir,” replies the officer snappily, standing in his black uniform as rigidly erect as a cast iron crowbar. Praxx quickly and expertly surveys the man, then asks him a few questions to which he already knows the answers.
“You have an education?”
“Yes. Sir. A master’s degree. In international relations. From the University of Blavek.”
“Less useful in this country than basketweaving. You can make a living weaving baskets.”
“Sir?”
“What made you decide to undertake those particular studies?”
“My family. Sir. My father is a diplomat. Once ambassador to Udskaya. As is my grandfather and great-grandfather.”
“Do you have a special interest in diplomacy, or is it simply a family tradition?”
“No. Sir. International relations have always been a passion with me.”
“Well, then, I have an assignment for you that ought to give you real pleasure.”
“Yes? Sir?”
“It’s a combination of diplomacy and espionage. I want you to go to Toth, as an official representative of King Ferenc, whom the Londeacans will be told is suffering from a debilitating illness . . . true enough in a sense, I suppose. I want you to discover just one thing for me: why King Felix felt it necessary to invite King Ferenc to Toth. The reasons accompanying the official invitation are not sufficient. As you can imagine, we cannot allow the king to walk blindly into something we know so little about, there must be more to this than is apparent.”
“Sir. The King of Londeac is, after all, King Ferenc’s uncle.”
“What does that have to do with it? You did study some history at the university? Or so you say?”
“Yes. Sir. Sorry. Sir. I spoke before I thought.”
“I hope that’s not something you are in the habit of doing.”
“No. Sir.”
“Well. You are to depart for Toth immediately. All of the relevant and necessary papers will be ready for you before you leave. You are not to use your military title. You will not be in uniform. From this moment you are Lord Bugarach, Envoy Plenipotentiary. A departure tomorrow morning should allow you plenty of time to prepare. You will be ready then.”
“Yes. Sir.”
The eager young captain, or lord, rather, is ready at dawn the following morning. As his orders have instructed he is dressed in the formal civilian costume appropriate to an ambassador: cutaway coat and striped trousers, top hat and portfolio. A pair of trunks being manhandled by a pair of navvies constitute his sole luggage.
“There is a carriage waiting,” says Praxx, “that will take you to the harbor. You will board the steam yacht Premsyl. The captain’s name is Berseba. As far as he knows, this is an ordinary diplomatic mission. You will indulge in intercourse with neither the captain nor his crew. In four days you will be landed at Spolkeen-on-the-sea. From there you will take the regular steam train to the capital. You will present these papers to the Chamberlain and will then await introduction to the king. From the time you arrive in Toth you will devote every waking moment to the task of discovering the cause behind the king’s sudden interest in King Ferenc. Do you have any questions?”
“One. Sir. What if I discover something of importance?”
“You will drop all pretense and return to Tamlaght by the fastest means possible.”
“Yes. Sir.”
Praxx watches the captain spin on his heels and march off. He wonders whether anyone will believe for an instant that the man is a diplomat and not a soldier. He doesn’t think so, but he hopes so nevertheless.
CHAPTER THREE
ONE WONDER AFTER ANOTHER
More than a week has passed since King Felix finally decided how he is going to handle the problem of his nephew. Bronwyn had readily agreed that separating her brother from Payne Roelt would certainly be a step in the right direction. As weak as Ferenc is, physically, morally and mentally, he nevertheless symbolically represents an authority that is immensely powerful, something Payne Roelt of course knows very well, and as long as the two men are so intimately bound, as long as Payne remains within the sphere of Ferenc’s protection, there are few plans that can even be contemplated. Therefore, the first step is to separate the two. Bronwyn explains to her uncle that Ferenc is being kept quite literally incommunicado and is probably entirely unaware that he is being systematically isolated from both the outside world and any effective control of his nation. If Ferenc can be lured to Londeac, then something, whatever finally might be decided, could be done about Payne. At least Ferenc would be safely beyond the influence of his Chamberlain, and Payne would no longer have the physical presence and authority of the king to protect him. Feeble as this plan might appear, seen objectively, it is the best that Felix or Bronwyn can devise, short of declaring outright war on Tamlaght.
Bronwyn is to join her friends for dinner one evening almost two weeks after Felix’s invitation had been sent to Ferenc. As usual, they are dining without the presence of Bronwyn’s uncle, who has suffered yet another asthmatic relapse. At the orders of his doctors, the king eats very sparingly, and of a rigidly prescribed diet. Though Bronwyn feels a little guilty at being relieved at the king’s absence, she is at the same time spared the greater guilt of eating substantial food and wine in the presence of the elderly man, who is forced to chew morosely on steamed lettuce. In these instances she and her friends ate in a small dining room that adjoined their apartments.
Even though these meals are attended by only the four refugees, they never fail to dress for them. It is a genteel routine that symbolizes normalcy, civilization and rightness. Bronwyn was delighted to discover that her wardrobe was filled with exquisite dresses, gowns and frocks, all meticulously tailored especially for her. Many of them are in styles alien to anything she has been accustomed to wearing, and are therefore not a little intimidating. Still avoiding anything she feels might be too extreme, she has for that evening chosen a fern-green dress that is cut in a style not dissimilar to what she had been used to wearing back home. Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that the hem brushes the floor, that its collar is high and its sleeves long, it fits her unlike anything she has ever before worn. Like most of the highly fashionable fabrics, it clings to her shamelessly, emphasizing her height and boyishly broad shoulders, past which her cordovan hair has grown long, spilling over weirs of clavicle and scapula in thick, aeruginous waves.
As she stands in front of the tall mirror, she tries to examine its image objectively. What she sees serves only to embarrass her. She wishes she was attractive enough to justify such an exquisite article of clothing. She squints at her reflection; her face looks bony, her nose is too large and she fears she has an overbite. At the same time she blushes at how tenaciously the fabric clings to her breasts, they look like gleaming unripe apples, and she regrets that they seem to look no larger than apples. She thinks the girl in the mirror looks lanky and awkward. She is surprised by the intensity of the emotion she is suddenly feeling. Or rather, not so much the intensity, but the quality of the emotion, which she realizes is bitterness, of all things. And her body is not the target; it is the dress.
There’s never been any real reason for me not to have had clothes like these in my old life. This dress is emblematic of everything that is wrong with Tamlaght. It is by no means a poor country. Why does it have to be so proud of being tawdry, grey and coarse? I had such golden memories of being raised as part of a very special, elite class, always knowing, believing, at least, that I am receiving and enjoying the best and finest of everything. Now I feel like some country bumpkin, proud of going barefoot, wearing homespun and barely able to worry out the letters of my own name, wholly unaware of a larger world of shoes, velvet, art and books. The green dress makes Bronwyn feel dreary and resentful, golden memories have been revealed to be only cheap electroplate.
Gyven, Thud and Milnikov are already in the dining room when she arrives. All are wearing, like her, the fine evening clothes the king has so thoughtfully provided. The baron looks only slightly less piratical in full evening dress: black tails, high stiff collar and white tie. More like a stage magician or professional card sharp. Thud is . . . amazing. He actually looks nearly human, more or less, perhaps something like a liberal editorial cartoonist’s caricature of a capitalist. As for Gyven . . . Oh, my! Why does he do this to me? He treats me like I’ve allowed no one else in my entire life to treat me . . . like no one else would ever have even considered treating me . . . and I let him do it! I let him get away with it. As long as I’m not looking at him, he infuriates and even disgusts me. But, Musrum help me, when I see him like this, I’ll forgive him anything. Damn it, I hate that: so why do I do it? Anyone seeing Gyven at that moment would have sympathized with the princess’s feelings. In full formal attire the man is almost supernaturally handsome.
She sat between Thud and Milnikov, as far from Gyven as she can manage, who seem not to notice that the princess is assiduously avoiding eye contact. The irrepressibly suave baron begins the conversation while the soup course is being placed upon the table. The subject is absolutely irrelevant, which makes her wonder if he’s been able to divine her thoughts and mood.
“Well, my dear Princess, I haven’t seen much of you these last few days. You’ve been exploring the palace, I take it?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, it’s a wonderful place, isn’t it?"
“Not quite like home, eh?”
“I know, I know. I’ve got very mixed emotions about that.”
“Is something the matter?”
“It’s hard to explain. Maybe I’ll talk to you about it later. But don’t worry: I’m fine.”
“And you, Thud?” continues the baron. “How do you like this place?”
“It’s nice.”
“You like the food?”
“It’s good.”
“You look very, ah, splendid in your new clothes.”
“They’re good.”
“And Gyven? How are you getting along, sir?”
“It’s all very pleasant here, thank you. I couldn’t possibly find fault with the hospitality, but I would be very much happier if I are where I ought to be,” he answers, fixing Bronwyn with a significant look.
“See here,” she replies, instantaneously heating, “I’ve told you before and I suppose that I’ll have to go on telling you that you’re no longer any responsibility of mine.”
“You promised,” he answers with equanimity.
“I did not! You aren’t even there! How do you know what I promised or didn’t promise?”
“I know what King Slagelse told me.”
“So what?”
“He told me that you promised to take me to the faeries’ kingdom.”
“Well, I’ve got some news for you, then. I haven’t any more idea where this faerie kingdom is supposed to be than you do. So chew on that for a while!”
“Um, Princess,” says the baron, a little distressed at the course the conversation is taking, “tell me the thing you’ve found most interesting about this wonderful palace.”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Baron. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t let silly things bother me so much. I apologize to all of you,” she says, letting an icy glance suffice to inform Gyven eloquently that what she had really said is “most of you.”
“There must be a thousand things here that are new to you.”
“Oh, yes! Yes! It’s been wonderful, like a dream. I could probably list at least that many without trying hard. You know, back home I read everything I could get my hands on about geography and science, but it’s one thing
to read about something in words, or to look at pictures, and to see whatever it is in real life. Did you know I’d never seen a steam engine before the day we arrived here, and I had never before seen anything electrical? I think those’re the most wonderful things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, the electric lights are just too beautiful; I can’t stop playing with the switches! And I discovered that I can talk with anyone in the palace with a, ah, telephone, and that there’re thousands of people in Toth that I could be connected to if I wanted. All I have to do is give the dispatcher the name of the person I want to talk to. And one of my uncle’s secretaries showed me this machine he uses for writing, letters and things come out looking just like they’d been printed. He can write with it faster than he can write with a pen. I forget what it’s called. And he had another machine that can send handwriting over an electric wire, if you can believe such a thing. There are a lot of other things I’d like to see: moving stairs, electric carriages, things like that.”
“I’m sure there’ll be time to see everything.”
“I haven’t been out of the palace since we arrived!”
“Well, now that your business with the king has been taken care of for the moment, why don’t we take a tour? There’ll be nothing to do until we hear from Blavek. It’ll help pass the tlme.”
“I’d love that!”
“Pardon me, Princess “ interrupts Gyven.
“What is it?” she replies with an exasperated gritting of her teeth.
“I have been recollecting the events and conversations during the time you spent with the Kobolds of which I am personally aware. I am forced to admit that I do not personally remember anytime actually hearing you make any specific promise to King Slagelse to take me anywhere other than Londeac.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Well, if it turns out to be true that it is possible you said nothing to King Slagelse about taking me to the faerie kingdom then in that case I would probably owe you an apology.”
