Mashkent evidently did not agree, for he grabbed for the box. Bronwyn dodged him and darted for the door and the winged horse tethered outside. Mirza snapped his fingers and the horse reared back and bared his teeth at her.
“Princess!” Jack shouted, “To me!” He was already astride Anastasia, and before the merchants could regain their equilibrium sufficiently to use their magic, she tossed the box to Jack, he caught it deftly, and Anastasia mowed down the merchants as she flew out the doors and into the night.
The merchants, shouting that they were being robbed, ran for the winged horses, but a shrill whistle from Carole slammed the doors in their faces, and when another whistle tune filled the air, they suddenly found they felt like dancing. They whirled and dipped for some moments until Carole judged Jack and Anastasia were well away, and she released them, a smug smile on her lips. When they regained their breath, they ranted and raved until King Roari, who was abiding—but only just—by his daughter’s request to handle the situation in her own way, scowled down at them. Then, being practical men, they allowed themselves to be comforted with food and soon found themselves dickering with Emperor Loefwin over the price of a magical winter crop to relieve the food shortage, and an infusion of technical assistance to help rehabilitate the former slaves, once their bracelets were removed.
By the time dessert was served, the door opened again and a half-frozen Jack reappeared.
The Miragenian honor chose once more to be offended, “And how do you intend to pay for the horses, ungrateful woman?” Mashkent hissed at Bronwyn in a tone too low, he hoped, to be heard by her father.
“I—whatever you say,” she said. Her misery was only relieved by the fact that her mother was squeezing her hand under the table and Carole patted her shoulder. “As long as it’s mine to give. I cannot compromise my father’s property, you understand.”
“Not the kingdom then,” Mirza said.
“In that case, you must give us your first-born,’ Mashkent declared. A gasp ran through the hall and this time the King did hear and both he and Queen started to protest, but the merchant faced those assembled and cried, “Hear me, Oh, merry-makers! The heir of Argonia has profited by her business dealings with us in the form of valuable flying horses that have saved her father’s country, and as you have seen, when we billed her for the humble payment we requested in our original estimate, she denied it to us. Now, when we quite fairly demand other compensation and she agrees that we may name our price, her people attempt to use force to deprive us of our Profit! What honor is there in that? How can one do business or sign treaties with…”
Bronwyn cringed but looked resigned when everyone, even her father, took their seats again. She had promised them whatever they asked, and they had mentioned before they might ask for her first-born, even though she didn’t have one yet, and might not ever. She started to frame an answer that would make it clear to everyone that the members of the royal house of Argonia put honor above even family affection, but found words as hard to frame as she had when she first tried to tell of finding the pomegranate.
Jack saw her anguished expression and the beginnings of her mute nod. He could not let them bully her this way, these slick experienced merchants. Princess she might be, warrior she might be, but in business matter? She was as ignorant as he was of court protocol. He interrupted smoothly, the effectiveness of his wheedling gypsy horse-trading tone only slightly diminished by the noise of his still-chattering teeth, “I thought you were honest merchants and not cheats, affluent ones. The Princess but borrowed your horses and they are all being returned to you in good condition. How can you demand that she give you her unborn child in return for horses that were merely rented?”
The other diners roared in approval of this speech and Mashkent waved his hand, magnanimously. “Very well then. We are not monsters. We at Mukbar, Mashkent and Mirza also have mothers, and children. Therefore, we will simply borrow the child for a time.”
“Five years,” Jack said.
“Fifty,” Mashkent returned.
“The Princess should enjoy her babe while it is yet a child. Ten, at the most,” Jack protested.
“We need adult work from a bonded one, not just a child’s appetite to feed with no return,” Mirza pointed out.
“Thirty,” Mashkent said decisively.
“Fifteen, and that is the last offer I would consider to be less than a declaration of war,” Jack said firmly, crossing his goose-fleshed arms over his chest, and carefully avoiding looking at King Roari.
“Twenty-five,” Mashkent replied, echoing the gesture.
“Twenty,” Jack said.
“Done.”
When the Miragenians finally departed with their horses and the Frostingdungian allies, Bronwyn would have felt she could finally breathe again, except that now it was her father who was angry. He glared down at Jack, growling, “You’ve a lot of nerve, laddie, bargaining with my grandchild’s future.”
“Your pardon, Great King,” Jack said, bowing but un-humbled. He had three cloaks wrapped around him now and a cup of warm wine had been thrust into his hand. “I meant only—”
“Don’t be angry with Jack, Father,” Bronwyn said quickly. “I would have given them anything they asked for. He kept me from giving in completely and bought time for all of us.”
“It wasna his place t’do so!” the King frowned.
“Was it not, O King?” asked a tall, black-gowned lady with silver streaks waving majestically through her black hair. “Unless I am mistaken, according to the new treaty you have just signed, Jack is heir to the Ablemarlonian throne, even as Bronwyn is heiress to yours. They have no peers that I know of in their own age group. Surely it is not unlikely that a matter concerning the future of Bronwyn’s child might not someday also—”
“I catch your drift,” the King admitted, though he didn’t seem to know if he liked it or not yet. “But I didn’t catch your name.”
“I am the Princess Anastasia Ilonia Vasilia Gwendolyn Martha Nettletongue, previously a swan and presently rightful heiress to the Nonarable Lands now known as West Frostingdung, but we will discuss that later, since I am enjoying far too much my recent release from long enchantment to discuss politics.”
“But how?” Bronwyn asked. “How did you change?”
“Much the same way you did, I assume, my dear. Contact with the pomegranate, I should say, though perhaps the spell was weakened when I returned home. At any rate here I am and there you are, and after all that bother I am most certainly happy we received some personal benefit.”
“We did?” Bronwyn looked down, as if expecting the benefit would be in the form of new shoes.
“But of course! Bronwyn dear, has it not occurred to you that you have long ago used your three minutes’ worth of charm and still appear to be speaking truthfully? I am certainly under the impression that your curse has lifted.”
Bronwyn had to think only a moment before agreeing with her formerly feathered friend. But what she couldn’t understand was how she could have failed to notice an important thing like that for all this time? And how had it happened? Was it the influence of the pomegranate, or perhaps her curse, with no counter-curse, had worn out, as the merchants had hinted that it might.
She had to test out one thing first. Taking off the charm bracelet, which might contain more power than its makers had thought, she finally shut her gaping mouth long enough to say with a sort of experimental conviction, “I believe you’re right about that, Your Highness.” And turning to Jack she said, “I just want to say, before you go to Ablemarle, that whatever Father says, and he will say yes, won’t you, Father? I will marry no one else but you and that I will miss you terribly and I don’t know how I’ll stand it without your companionship.”
“My Princess,” Jack bowed with a courtliness befitting his new status and kissed her hand, gazing adoringly up at her, “I would rather be lied to by you than told the greatest of truths by any other. But in the matter of this pledge yo
u have made, I shall hold you to it.”
“That’s all very well for the two of you,” Carole said in an aggrieved tone, “You’re both royalty now and if you’re betrothed you’ll get to see each other again, but for those of us who are left without so much as a flying horse to show for their trouble, Ablemarle is a very long way away and—and I’m going to miss you too.”
“And I you,” he said, shifting on one knee so he was now kneeling between them and could catch one of Carole’s hands in his spare one. “But do not mourn over our parting so quickly, my friend. Come spring smuggling season, you may well find me, crown and all, banging on your door to sell you your own fortune. I have been a prince only a short while but I have been a gypsy all my life and if there is one thing a gypsy knows about, it’s traveling.”
About the Author
Elizabeth Ann Scarborough is the author of 24 solo fantasy and science fiction novels, including the 1989 Nebula award winning HEALER’S WAR, loosely based on her service as an Army Nurse in Vietnam during the Vietnam War. She has collaborated thus far on 16 novels with Anne McCaffrey, six in the bestselling Petaybee series and eight in the YA bestselling Acorna series, and most recently, the Tales of the Barque Cat series, Catalyst and Catacombs (from Del Rey). Recently she has converted all of her previously published solo novels to eBooks with the assistance of Gypsy Shadow Publishing, under her own Fortune imprint. Spam Vs. the Vampire was her first exclusive novel for eBook and print on demand publication, followed by Father Christmas (a Spam the Cat Christmas novella) and The Tour Bus of Doom.
WEBSITE: http://www. eascarborough.com
BLOG: http://spamslitterature.wordpress.com/
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/KBDundee
FACEBOOK: http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.a.scarborough
OTHER: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4811383.K_B_Dundee
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