King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  The tax reform took most of Malory’s second term to get enacted. The work entailed, for me, the casting of a lot of enchantments,—in the main, influencing the influential to side with our viewpoint without having to concede some ridiculous boon in return. It did not take many days of dealing with these officious, self-serving, power-seeking, shake-with-one-hand-and-stab-you-with-the-other Congressional types to add the imposition of term limits to the list of reforms I planned to establish. I would have loved to have sacked and racked the lot of them, and started over with a fresh new set (preferably young and handsome and male, too), but Malory would not approve that aspect of my plan either. More’s the pity; it meant having to tread delicately through these esteemed halls of power. Fortunately for Malory, delicate treading is my specialty.

  “I made Malory vow not to spend, as President, more than her country’s annual income.”

  It also meant that Malory would need to stay in office beyond her second term, so the lifting of that ban became my focus in 2083 and into 2084. Once Malory revealed her re-election platform, which included tort reform, balancing the budget and keeping it balanced, and the overhaul of public schools to reintroduce the ancient and effective practice of apprenticing, reserving all education past the eighth grade for the true scholars, her election to a third term of office became assured.

  Thus four years fairly flew by. I attended London games and business meetings when I could, which was not often, alas. When I had bought the team, I left the board of trustees in place to carry on in my stead. That, in retrospect, was a mistake; I should have assumed direct governance forthwith. The trustees did nothing of significance to advance the Knights’ fortunes—or mine—and the team did not advance to the World Tournament during any of those years. Desmorel’s team was not in the championship hunt in 2084 either; the Springs suffered injuries to several key players and did not make it to the Americas Banner playoff tournament. Even a man of profit must bow to fate on occasion.

  As I watched the 2084 Tournament—the Longmont Longstockings, breaking a twenty-two-year drought, versus the Moscow Tsars in their first world-championship appearance—I vowed to take personal charge of the London Knights and turn them into a team of which I could be proud.

  President Malory was not enamored of my decision to move to London, but since I would be but a bullet train’s ride from Washington (as a means of conveyance, I prefer the swimming worm to its flying cousin), she granted her consent. I did not require her consent, of course; but it was far more pleasant to depart with her blessing than without it.

  Ah, and which team did I cheer for in 2084? My dearest reader, you should know me well enough by now to make an excellent guess. The tournament, for me, had an extra happy outcome in that I won a huge sum of money from Ambrose—which I did not influence, magically or otherwise, as Our Lord God is my witness!—and there were vodka baths aplenty for the victors after the final out of the final game.

  I did not foresee that besting Ambrose in the monetary realm would reap dire consequences for both of us, ere we were done with one another. And yet, were I to choose to live those days over again, I would not change a thing.

  Chapter XI:

  The Queen in Search of a Baseball Club

  CLARICE HELPED ME pack my clothing and accessories for the relocation to London: just what I would need for the first brace of weeks, which amounted to eight large traveling cases, one of which was devoted to my hair accoutrements and cosmetics. Not long after arriving in this century, Clarice had introduced me to these wonderful products, which allowed me to create the same visual effect as I had done for decades with the aid of magic; now you sit privy to the secret of how I could cast ever so many enchantments for President Malory and remain looking as glorious as ever.

  While I was yet sorting through my garments deciding which to bring and which to leave, my thoughts turned toward a leaving of another sort. I must have appeared sorrowful, for of a sudden Clarice asked if aught ailed me.

  “I shall miss you, Clarice, when I get to London.” Since that answer represented only half the truth, I hurried on with: “And yet I know that you shall perform your duties in continuing to oversee my office here in Washington to the utmost of your considerable abilities.”

  That made her smile, and she thanked me for the compliment, but her look turned shrewd. “I imagine you’ll miss President Hinton, too.”

  “Of course I shall. She has become as a sister to me.”

  I resumed examination of the dress I had been holding, a sexy little black thing that I would have loved to have worn only for Accolon…

  “Please tell me about him,” said Clarice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The shrewd look was back. Mayhap it had never left. “Sir Accolon. Queen Morgan, you have not—um, partnered with any man of this century more often than once to my certain knowledge, since I manage your schedule. I suspect that you have not yet found anyone you like, let alone love, as well as he. No one of this era could make you go all moony-eyed while looking at a dress; therefore, you must be thinking about Accolon. So, please tell me about him.”

  Ha. I knew I had chosen her as my trusted adviser for good reason, and I rewarded her accordingly. As the memories swirled about in my mind, making me yearn even more acutely for Accolon’s company, I said:

  “He was a knight with very few peers during his lifetime, excepting only Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawaine. And my brother—those three were the only knights who ever bested him in single combat. So naturally, he was big—in all parts and portions—and muscular, and very strong, yet as a lover he was no brute, but as tender as any virgin maid could ever wish for. His intellect was nearly as keen as mine, as was his eagerness to assist me in righting the wrongs inflicted upon me by my brother. He had hair as glossy black as a raven’s wing, which he kept short-cropped in the old Roman style; he once said it was more comfortable under the helmet than having masses of hair stuffed up under and making the head sweat overmuch. It had a fine curl to it that I found most endearing. His eyes were an unforgettable shade of blue, and he had a strong chin that he kept clean-shaven…Lord God in heaven! Who on earth is that?”

  While I had been discoursing on Accolon’s virtues, Clarice had activated her screen, which was now displaying the image of a man who could have been my dead lover’s twin.

  Clarice grinned. “You said the other day that you wanted to find another general manager for the Knights. This man is Alexander Leroy ‘Sandy’ Carter, former WBF second baseman and 2073 Tournament MVP for the Connecticut Yankees. Since his retirement as a player, he has served in various capacities for several teams, including as a GM. He is a renowned expert in all matters baseball.”

  In any era, when something—or someone—sounds too good to be true, it—or he—usually is. I asked, “If he is so valuable, then why does he not stay with one team?”

  A look of chagrin crossed her countenance. “Sandy Carter is what we call a ‘loose cannon.’ He can be temperamental and wild, and he gets into fights with players and coaches and…sometimes even with his bosses. And not just verbal fights, either. Usually his points are quite valid, but his means of expressing them don’t earn him any friends.”

  In a word, then, passionate. Passionate men I understood and could work with. It had been thus with Accolon at the start of our association, and look at all I had been able to accomplish with him. Everything I had ever desired, except King Arthur’s throne.

  Wit I well that lying and gullibility were two facets of human nature that had not changed in the last fifteen centuries and shall not change in the next fifteen, either. I had learned this while trying to evaluate potential new Knights for the team. Everyone speaks glowingly of his accomplishments and accolades; no one ever mentions his flaws or mistakes or regrets unless a wise employer chooses to ask specific questions of this ilk. Yet Clarice had offered the bad along with the good of this man. Still, I would be forced as a point of honor to relinquish my coveted title of T
he Wise if I accepted her words at face value; upon turning the thought-receptors toward me, I soon verified everything she had told me about this volatile man.

  I asked, “Is Sandy Carter available now?”

  Clarice’s grin returned. “For the right price, Queen Morgan, anyone is.”

  It took only one call, and Sandy Carter expressed exceeding pleasure and eagerness to accompany me to London as general manager of the Knights. The fact that I had worn the sexy black number during the call saved the team quite a sum with regard to Carter’s agreed-upon salary.

  Neither as queen nor as ball club owner do I ever make idle promises.

  The London of my acquaintance could have fit inside one shoe of the London belonging to the latter twenty-first century. When Ambrose had escorted me there four years and as many wagers earlier, the visit had by necessity been so short that I could not appreciate then how far the town had sprawled since the sixth century, compassing nearly the entire south end of Britain, with the exception of Kent, most of Wessex, and Cornwall, the denizens of which to this day remain as incomprehensible as they ever have been. London’s Lord Mayor is a busy man.

  New Wembley Ballpark—not to be confused with Old Wembley Stadium, with its canted roof arch proclaiming millions of football fans served—had been constructed a quarter-century earlier near Old Wembley. An ancient brick warehouse defined the left-field line that had been repaired and converted to house souvenir shops, an emergency medical facility, a large tavern, several walk-up eateries, a rooftop landing pad, and, occupying the upper floors, the team’s offices, including a handsome suite of chambers, featuring a peerless view of the field, which comprised my private office. One small but necessary task I had accomplished soon after acquiring the team was that I had changed the furnishings to be as sumptuous as those gracing the ballpark’s Royal Box; the Knights’ previous owners were not men who appreciated luxury. I did, however, leave my office’s walls covered with the pennons and banners the team had won during its sixty-year existence prior to my reign.

  The day I arrived to assume full-time control of the team, as I invited my Accolon doppelgänger into my office for some…shall I say, private getting-acquainted time, I appreciated the soft couches and the sound-muffling wall-coverings, as well as the specially treated window glass that allowed us to see out but no one to see in. The bases Sandy and I covered during the course of that first meeting, and all of our one-on-one meetings throughout the many years to come, were no one’s business save our own.

  Chapter XII:

  Slow Torture

  MY MEETINGS ALONE with Sandy were the only ones I enjoyed, even when we were engaged in bona fide team business. I had many opportunities for comparison; my schedule was awash with meetings. Breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, tea meetings, tee meetings, pee meetings, meetings with board members, bored members, other owners, representatives of this, that, and the other department of the WBF organization, the umpires’ association, sponsors, donors, vendors, politicians, statisticians, journalists, analysts, charities, accountants, lawyers, scouts, louts, pouts, coaches, managers, and players, present and prospective, from all levels of the franchise.

  Merciful God Above, did I ever grow to despise meetings.

  I had to keep reminding myself that I chose this course of action, for I wished to learn all that could be learned about baseball, and in so doing I wrought this torture upon myself. Perhaps a canny reader might become wary of meetings, and rightfully so; avoidance shall double a person’s lifespan. On the other hand, perhaps this is not woven into the fabric of this century, since it would grind to a screeching halt if someone could outlaw meetings…and wield the power to make the ban stick. As Queen of Gore, I had perforce to confer with my ministers, but never in the long years of my governance of that fair land had I been subjected to such an endless and all too often useless string of time-gobbling events.

  Meetings with other WBF owners featured an especially disgusting method of torture. My employees soon learned the two things I could not abide: discourteous speech toward any meeting attendee, and smoking. The existence of my signature upon their paychecks was all the magic required to convince them to heed these rules.

  The WBF franchise owners presented a singular challenge, since they varied from kings and queens of industry to kings and queens in fact (or wealthy and/or powerful enough to be counted in that grouping, if not precisely so titled). The latter types looked upon their teams as an expensive toy to be taken from the shelf and played with on occasion, leaving the staff to bear the dusting and maintenance of it, while the former owner types ran their respective operations with all the exactitude and enjoyment of a naval vessel at war. There were a few owners, like myself, who saw their teams as both a business and a fount of fun whenever we could divorce ourselves from these infernal meetings.

  “Infernal” is the operable word. Most of the owners, of whatever gender or ilk, liked to smoke during our meetings, whether we had assembled for business or social reasons: pipes, cigars, cigarettes, cigarillos, it mattered not. If someone was offering, someone else was accepting the disgusting, smoldering stinky little sticks, which I had seen my nemesis The Boss employ during my century, and which goes a long way toward explaining my abhorrence of them. I could not impose a ban upon this practice by earnest pleas or by magical incantations to save my soul. The male owners were the worst offenders, and my magic proved no match for the uncontrollable urge to spew at irregular but frequent intervals like a short chimney on a steep-pitched roof. The best I could do, discreetly of course, was to invoke a spell to waft the smoke away, to spare me from inhaling that vile air, replacing it with the strong yet soothing aroma of lavender. For those who believed I was wearing too much perfume, I did nothing to disabuse them of that false assumption. Inhaling the occasional waft from a fireplace because one prefers a bit of coughing to freezing to death is one thing; why anyone chooses to pollute his or her body with smoke on a habitual basis is quite simply beyond me. I trust that you, my wise reader, do not fall into this malodorous and self-destructive temptation.

  Sandy was a tremendous help, not only in the execution of his official duties as general manager but in guiding me through my learning process, accompanying me to as many meetings as his own relentless schedule would permit, and answering my questions with the patience and wisdom of an army of hair-shirted saints.

  For the first several weeks, I remained content—if this word can be applied to the attendance of any meeting—to observe silently, taking note not only of what was said, but how it was said, by whom, and to whom, where people sat, what they wore, what they ate or drank, whether they arrived late or departed early and the excuses they presented for said aberrations, whether they seemed cheerful, glum, somber, sober, nervous, confident, bored, stupefied, or asleep. Much can be learned when one keeps one’s eyes and ears and mind open, and mouth shut, even if one is shutting one’s mouth to conceal one’s ignorance of the topic being discussed by the other wit-heads.

  Meetings of whatever type or topic all have the same cast of characters present, whether the meeting is a group of players, lawyers, owners, or security guards. And everyone wanted a decision about something, from which player to hire and how much to pay him, to which home game would be designated as Bring a Photo of Your Pet and Receive a Free Baseball Day (offer available to children ten and under presenting a valid game ticket and identification and accompanied by a ticket-holding adult; not available to children of employees of the London Knights WBF Team, or to children of employees of the WBF or their affiliates; offer good while supplies last, or at the discretion of the spotty-faced kids we pulled off the street at the last second to hand out these confounded things; and void where prohibited by law).

  One meeting was particularly memorable, and not only for being the meeting wherein I chose to end my silence.

  Sandy and I had just concluded a bout of pre-meeting…business. Were we late arriving at the appointed venue? Of cou
rse not; a queen by definition is never late. Everyone was already present, chatting amongst themselves. The chatter ceased upon my appearance, as though I had invoked a spell. I swear I did not. Every head in the room nodded toward me. Timekeeper consulted his chronometer with an amusing twitch of his arm in a vain attempt to be discreet.

  Such palm-size communication devices do everything from displaying the time of day to spot-cleaning your chemise. Oh, aye, and you can speak or send a message to another person, or at least pretend to be so doing when in fact you are playing “Sims Multiverse Adventures.” I did not ban these devices from my meetings because I quickly learned two things about them: they were crucial to have in the event of an emergency, and those who were engaged in operating their devices were not violating my primary restrictions for meeting behavior. If someone missed an important decision due to inattention, well, that is what firing is for.

  It is good to be queen.

  “They’re late again,” mumbled Faultfinder.

  I heard him, as did everyone else in the room, to judge by their subtly horrified expressions; but I was feeling content in the wake of my private meeting with Sandy and thus allowed Faultfinder’s jibe—to employ a baseball idiom—to slide.

  Sandy bristled beside me but followed my lead. We cordially greeted everyone as we took our places. I brought the meeting to order and requested a summary of unresolved issues.