by Mike Resnick
“It wasn't exactly the laying on of eyes that got so rudely interrupted last night,” I pointed out.
“We forgive you for that,” said Heinrich.
“Well, I'm sure that's right generous of you,” I said, “but I hadn't quite got around to doing anything I need to be forgiven for, if you understand my subtle but outraged meaning.”
“Forget all that,” said the General. “We have important business to discuss with you.”
“Yeah?” I said.
He nodded. “You could be the answer to our prayers.”
“Well, you're in luck, General,” I said. “Answering prayers is one of the very best things I do, me being a man of the cloth and all.”
“You may be in luck, too, Reverend Jones,” said the General. “We have a job for you. It's dangerous, but the pay is excellent, and you'll know that you are serving the cause of Right and Justice.”
“Uh ... back up a couple of steps to the dangerous part,” I said.
“I won't deceive you,” said the General. “Your life will be constantly at risk.”
“Well, it sure has been nice chatting with you fellers,” I said, getting to my feet and walking to the door of my cell. “But I think it's time for me to hit the road.”
“A quarter of a million dollars,” said the General.
“On the other hand,” I said, walking back to my bed and sitting back down on the edge of it, “it would be rude to leave without at least hearing you out.”
“I don't know,” said Heinrich. “Are you sure this is our only option?”
“We both know it is,” answered the General. He turned to me. “We've yet to be formally introduced. I am General Gruenwald, head of Sylvania's army, and this is Lord Mayor Heinrich Rembert.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Let's talk about the half million dollars.”
“All in good time, Reverend Jones,” said the General. He pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it over to me. “Do you recognize the man in this picture?”
“It's me,” I said. “But I sure can't remember posing in all them fancy duds. It must have been took at a carnival or something when I was on a bender.”
“It is not you,” said General Gruenwald. “It is a photograph of King Philbert of Sylvania, and it was taken two weeks ago.”
“You don't say!”
“We do say,” replied Lord Mayor Rembert. “You could be his double, Reverend Jones. The same weak chin, the same unkempt hair, the same look about the eyes that inspires instant mistrust, even the same slovenly way of walking.”
“All right,” I said. “I look like King Philbert. So what?”
“An attempt was made to assassinate Philbert the night before last,” said General Gruenwald. “He still lives, but he is in the hospital, and will be confined there for at least a month. We believe that the attempt on his life was made by Wilhelm Von Sykoff, the leader of the opposition party. Von Sykoff is an evil man, totally opposed to everything King Philbert stands for. He has begun spreading the rumor that Philbert is dead, and if the people start to believe him, it will totally destablize the kingdom. Yet the doctors will not permit Philbert any visitors, not even the members of our press, nor would it do any good, since he is swathed in bandages from head to toe and cannot possibly be recognized even by those nearest and dearest to him.” He paused. “Do you see where this is leading, Reverend Jones?”
“You want to pay me a quarter of a million dollars to say a prayer for him?” I asked.
“We want you to impersonate him,” said Mayor Rembert. “To become King Philbert for the next four weeks. To wear his clothes, make his speeches, eat his meals, sleep in his bed.”
“If you can carry off this illusion until Philbert is healthy enough to resume his duties, you will save the kingdom,” added General Gruenwald. “And for this we are prepared to pay you the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars.”
“Of course,” continued Lord Mayor Rembert, “we would be less than candid if we did not warn you that Wilhelm Von Sykoff will probably redouble his efforts to kill you.”
“Why don't you just lock him away in some dungeon somewhere?” I asked.
“He is not without his followers,” said General Gruenwald. “Any such action would instantly precipitate a civil war.”
“Well, Reverend Jones,” said Lord Mayor Rembert, “will you do it?”
I mulled on it for a minute, and decided that even if I couldn't lock Von Sykoff away, maybe I could make him my ambassador to Tasmania or Fiji or some place like that and be rid of him for the month I had to pretend to be Philbert.
“Well,” I said at last, “I ain't never been king of my very own country, and my tabernacle could sure use that money. Put half of it up front and you got yourself a deal.”
“In King Philbert's—ah, your—bedroom there is a metal box in the top drawer of your dresser,” said General Gruenwald. “The down payment will be there waiting for you by this evening.”
“Perhaps you should tell him that's not all that will be waiting for him,” suggested the Lord Mayor.
The General nodded. “I'd almost forgotten about Princess Griselda.”
“Princess Griselda?” I repeated.
“She is your—um, Philbert's—bethrothed. The wedding is scheduled for next spring.”
“That will be your most severe test as Philbert's impersonator,” said the Lord Mayor. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“I'm quite a hand with the ladies,” I said. “Except for the improvement, she'll never know the difference.”
“Then I suppose we'd best get to work,” said General Gruenwald. “We'll have to sneak you into the palace and get you dressed in Philbert's clothes. Since everyone knows Philbert was shot two days ago, it might be best to keep one arm in a sling, or perhaps affect a limp.” He paused. “I'll be at your side night and day to point out who you know, what their names are, what Philbert would do in given situations.”
“Well, I appreciate that, General Gruenwald,” I said. “Especially during the days. But,” I added, thinking of Griselda, “I got a feeling that I can handle the nights on my own.”
“As you wish,” said General Gruenwald. He led me to the door of my prison cell. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we'll know if this audacious impersonation will work.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, falling into step beside him.
We walked out to a car that had all its back windows covered up, and then climbed into it and began driving through the winding, stone-covered streets of Sylvania, passing a number of churches and taverns along the way, until we pulled up to this huge palace with gargoyles peering down at the liveried doormen. We zipped around to the servants’ entrance just next to the kitchen, and they snuck me up the stairs before anyone even knew we were there.
A minute later I was standing in this room that was only slightly smaller than Lumpini Stadium back in Siam. Almost all the furniture was painted gold along the edges and covered with velvet, and the walls were loaded with paintings by some Dutchman who I figured was a friend of the family since I'd seen dancing hall posters that had more accurate renderings of what people looked like. There was a mahogany table that could have sat the whole of the Chicago White Sox, along with their manager and coaches, for dinner. Off to one side was a private cinema theater, but since General Greunwald hadn't never heard of Theda Bara or Clara Bow, I figured I'd give it a pass. And finally there was a bedroom, with a huge four-poster bed that Solomon and all his wives could have bounced around on at the same time. The bathroom held a tub you could go sailing in, and a shower with five nozzles for them what didn't have time for a long, leisurely wallow.
“Well?” said General Gruenwald.
I allowed that I could get used to my surroundings without putting forth an enormous effort.
“Let's get you dressed properly,” said the Lord Mayor, walking to a closet in which Baron Steinmetz could have stashed a couple of hundred of his home-made me
n. He pulled out an outfit and tossed it over to me. “Here,” he said. “Change into this.”
When I was done, I looked at myself in one of the dozen or so mirrors and I must admit that I was mightily impressed. My jacket, which stopped at the waist, had gold epaulettes and braid, and maybe five pounds’ worth of medals, and the shiniest brass buttons I ever did see, and my pants were deep blue with a gold stripe down the side. My boots were soft, and polished within an inch of their lives.
“And now your sword,” said the General, attaching it around my waist.
“Uh ... this Philbert ain't prone to sword-fighting when he has too much to drink or loses his temper, is he?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said the General. “It's merely for show. Although he is a master swordsman.”
“And now,” said the Lord Mayor, “it's time to go downstairs for dinner.”
We walked out the door of my suite and down a huge winding staircase. There was a little guy in glasses waiting at the bottom.
“Am I supposed to know him?” I whispered.
“He's a reporter,” answered the General.
“What do I say to him?”
“Be vague and noncommittal.”
When we reached the end of the staircase, the little feller walked up to me.
“How are you feeling, King Philbert?” he asked.
“I'm fit as a bull moose,” I said.
“I had heard you were badly wounded,” he said.
“Well, let me amend that,” I said. “I'm fit as a bull moose what's been gut-shot.”
“I thought you were shot in the leg.”
“I was,” I said quickly.
“Then why do you compare yourself with a bull moose that has been gut-shot?”
“Because I ain't never made the acquaintance of a moose that's been shot in the leg,” I said. He just kind of stared at me, so I figured I'd change the subject. “Lovely day, ain't it?” I asked him.
“What do you plan to do about Wilhelm Von Sykoff's tax bill?” he said.
“Think it may rain, though,” I said.
“All right, King Philbert,” he said with a sigh. “As long as you feel compelled to discuss the weather, what do you think of it?”
“Oh, I approve of weather,” I said. “And as long as I'm the king, we're gonna have it.”
He was about to ask me something else when the General led me into the dining room.
There were a bunch of people there, all decked out to the nines, and the minute I entered the room they all bowed. I didn't quite know what to do, so I bowed back, which set ’em all to bowing again. I figured maybe we could just keep doing it all night long and not have to get around to talking at all, but the General nudged me and whispered that I should sit down, so I did, and then everyone else sat down too.
“I am pleased to see Your Majesty looking so well,” said a large, burly man with a black mustache and lambchop sideburns.
“Well, I could stand to lose maybe a pound and a half,” I said modestly.
“I mean, you seem to have recovered from your unfortunate accident.”
“It takes more than forty or fifty bullets to keep a good man down,” I answered.
“Careful,” whispered the General. “That's Von Sykoff.”
“Have you any idea who was behind this heinous act?” asked Von Sykoff.
“Oh, probably some disgruntled retard who envies my manly good looks,” I said. “It ain't worth worrying about. Now let's all dig in and grab some grub.”
“Such quaint Americanisms,” chuckled a lady, and I turned to see I was sitting next to one of the prettier females it had ever been my privilege to see. “You are such a wit, Philbert!”
“The Princess Griselda,” whispered the General.
“Why, thanks, Griselda honey,” I said.
She shot me a smile that made me right anxious for dinner to end, and then Von Sykoff spoke up again.
“Has Your Majesty given any further consideration to my tax bill?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “How much do you owe?”
Everyone kind of laughed at that, except for Von Sykoff, who turned a bright red.
“Your Majesty is in a rare humor this evening,” he said through gritted teeth.
“You think that's funny?” I said. “Have you ever heard the one about the dancing girl and the Albanian priest?”
Well, I shared that little drollery with them, and then I told ’em about the traveling salesman and the architect's daughter, and then I topped it off with the tale of the airplane pilot and the Chinese virgin, and even though I forgot the punch line everyone laughed fit to kill, and it suddenly occurred to me that I liked being King, and that if old Philbert wanted to spend an extra couple of months recuperating it wouldn't bother me none at all.
“This is a side of you I've never seen before,” said Griselda when I was all done telling my stories. “Where did you ever learn such risque tales?”
“Griselda, honey,” I said, “you wouldn't believe how many sides of me you ain't seen yet. After we get rid of all these here guests, I'll take you upstairs and show you some of them.”
She just giggled like I was telling another joke, and then the waiters brought out dessert, and eventually we were all through eating, and then the General got up and proposed a toast to me, and everyone stood up and yelled “Long live Philbert!” and we all drank up, and then the Lord Mayor did the same, and then Griselda got up and drank to my health, and I began to see that even if the people weren't a hundred percent in favor of having a king instead of a president, it could break every liquor company in Sylvania if they ever changed the political system.
“Suggest that we repair to the drawing room,” whispered the General after eight or nine more toasts.
“Folks,” I said, getting kind of shakily to my feet, since I'd been matching ’em all toast for toast, “I just been informed that the drawing room's broke and in need of repair. Let's all mosey over there and see if we can fix it.”
Everyone chuckled again, and I could see that Philbert never had to worry about people laughing at his jokes, even when he wasn't necessarily making ’em, and then I stared at everyone and they all stared back at me, and finally the General jabbed me in the short ribs and I jumped up, and then everyone else got up and we all wandered over to the drawing room, which was filled with fancy chairs and dinky little tables but didn't have no drawing materials or even pencils that I could see.
I was about to amuse the guests with some more stories, but a bunch of guys with violins started strolling around the room. They finished when they were right in front of me, and I figured I should probably reach into my pocket and tip ’em for their trouble, but they just bowed and thanked me for letting ’em perform and walked off to the kitchen or wherever it was they'd come from.
One by one the guests started leaving, until there was no one left except Griselda and Von Sykoff, and he came over and stood in front of me and stared at me.
“You seem somehow different tonight, Your Majesty,” he said kind of suspiciously.
“Yeah?” I asked. “In what way?”
“Your manner of expressing yourself, for one thing.”
“It's all the rage in Moline, Illinois,” I said.
“How very witty,” he said with an oily smile. He bowed, and suddenly lowered his voice to a whisper. “You may fool the others, but not Wilhelm Von Sykoff. Your days are numbered, imposter.”
Then he turned on his heel and left before I could tell the General what he'd said.
“He's right,” said Griselda.
“You know it too?” I asked.
“That you're witty?” she said. “Absolutely. It was a very pleasant change, Philbert. You seemed so tense and stern last week.”
“Probably my boots were too tight,” I said.
She stood up and walked over to me. “There's a beautiful moon out tonight,” she said. “Shall we go for a walk?”
“Why the hell not?” I agre
ed.
“Philbert, you never used vulgarisms before,” said Griselda.
“Well, they came cheap and they played nice music,” I said, taking her arm and heading for the front door.
“I think I'd better accompany you, Your Majesty,” said the General, joining us.
“I got the situation well in hand,” I said.
“It is my job to protect you.”
“You protect me from Princess Griselda and you just might find out what it's like to be a private again,” I said.
“But...”
“I'm the King, ain't I?” I said. “And the King says: scram.”
He backed away, and we went outside, and Griselda turned to me. “You seem so different tonight, Philbert,” she said. “So forceful.”
“What's the point of being King if I can't voice a few terse commands as the mood strikes me?” I said.
“But you've never behaved like that to General Gruenwald before.”
“Let him get his own Princess,” I said, giving her a friendly little pinch in a delicate area.
She shrieked. “Philbert!”
“Just being boyishly playful, my love,” I said.
“You mustn't do that again until we're married,” she said severely.
Which was when I began to see that old Philbert's love life hadn't yet left the starting gate.
“Refresh my memory,” I said. “Just how long have we been engaged?”
“Since you were five and I was two,” she answered. “But you know that.”
“I also know it's about time we brung this here courtship into the Twentieth Century.”
“What's come over you, Philbert?” she demanded.
“Probably it was getting shot by all them bullets,” I said. “It makes a man realize just how fleeting life is.”
“I knew there was some reason for this strange behavior,” she said. “Does it hurt much?”
“Only when I breathe in and out,” I said.
“You poor man!” she said. “And here I am, thoughtlessly making you walk around the grounds and expend your energy only two days after that frightful experience.”
“Now as I come to think on it,” I said, “I probably would feel a mite better if I went up to bed.”
