The Tin Princess

by Philip Pullman

  "We go to bed early here," he said. "Never mind. Come back to my room - I've got some bread and cheese and a bottle of something..."

  So they climbed four flights of stairs to Karl's room high over the University Square, where if you hung out of the window, Karl assured him, and leant out to the left while standing tiptoe in the gutter, you had a fine view of the forested hills to the north. Jim took his word for it. There by the light of a candle they supped on dry bread, drier cheese and plum brandy, while Karl told him about Razkavian politics, and duelling, and drinking, and the serious business of being a student, and they began to like each other a great deal.

  Next day Jim spoke to the Prince privately, and told him about the fight in the beer-cellar.

  "The point is, sir, the people are aware of your marriage, but they need to see the Princess publicly acknowledged. The longer she's kept out of sight the more rumours will grow and the worse your position will get. Can't you speak to His Majesty and suggest some kind of announcement? Perhaps even a service in the Cathedral?"

  "It is very difficult at the moment... The Court is still in mourning for my brother and his wife... Taylor, who is killing us all?"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out, sir. I don't think Glatz and his slavering mob of students are anything to worry about. But they're a symptom, you see. I'm more interested in the woman."

  "Woman? What woman?"

  "The spy in the garden that night, remember?"

  "A woman?"

  "I wasn't sure. But when the Irish Guards told me how they'd followed the spy to a theatre, and an actress had put them off the track, I began to see how she could have done it... I haven't asked you before, sir, and I shan't do again: but have you been involved with a woman like that? One who might want to avenge herself on you for some reason?"

  The Prince was so obviously bewildered that Jim believed his denial at once.

  "But you must make some announcement soon about your marriage," he said. "Mourning or no, that's the only way to get the people on your side."

  Another thing was nagging at Jim's mind, and that was the dead Prince, Leopold. There were endless tributes to the murdered Crown Prince Wilhelm and his Princess: articles in the papers praising his diligence and her beauty; photographic portraits and engravings on sale, complete with black borders; reports of the search for the cowardly assassins, who had been traced, according to which paper you read, to Brussels, or St Petersburg, or Budapest, but then invariably lost. There was a surfeit of Prince Wilhelm; but of his elder brother, the King's first son, not a word. It was as if he'd been expunged from history.

  Furthermore, Jim found that when he asked about him, he met a frosty response: frowns, indrawn breaths. Even Count Thalgau was reluctant to speak about him.

  "That's all a long time ago," he said. "No point in raking up old scandals. That Prince is dead; our job's to protect this one. Where'd you get that black eye, my boy?"

  Jim told the Count about the fight in the cellar, and the old man chortled with delight, smacking a fist into his palm.

  "By God!" he said. "I'd love to have been there! That's the kind of spirit we need around the Palace, young rascals like your von Gaisberg. I knew his father, you know. Got drunk with him more than once."

  "I had the notion," Jim said, "of setting up a kind of private guard, with the help of the Richterbund. A kind of unofficial, plain-clothes bodyguard for the Prince and Princess."

  "Excellent idea. But don't tell Godel, whatever you do; he'd ban it at once. I wish I was young again, Taylor. I'd come and join your private guard like a shot..."

  Jim was becoming very attached to this loud old warrior; there was shrewdness under the bluster, and a warm heart under the ferocity. The Count was a poor man, or so he'd gathered; old family estates had been dwindling, and, most unusually, he'd had to live on his Ambassador's salary. He had remained with the Prince since Rudolf had returned not only because the Countess was guiding Adelaide through the manners of the Court, but because Rudolf had given him a position on his personal staff.

  However, the Count clearly wasn't going to tell him about Prince Leopold. Jim went in search of information elsewhere, and later that week he found himself in a part of the Palace he hadn't yet seen: the Picture Gallery.

  There he spent half an hour gazing at the representations of forgotten battles and incomprehensible scenes from mythology, plump nudes and muscle-bound heroes gesturing in exaggerated ways that would have gone down well in the Victoria Theatre in Lambeth, where they liked their emotions undiluted. There were portraits of past monarchs too: there was one of poor mad King Michael with his swan-bride, which made Jim goggle; and high up in the darkest corner of the gallery, a young man in a hussar colonel's uniform who looked very like Rudolf. So like, in fact, that Jim uttered a muffled exclamation of surprise, which was heard by the elderly curator, who was sorting aquatints at a table further down the gallery.

  The old man came up to see where he was looking.

  "The late Prince Leopold," he said in a hushed voice. "It is a not insignificant example of the work of the great Winterhalter. Would you like to examine it more closely?"

  He pulled some mahogany steps from an alcove, and Jim climbed to peer at the likeness of Rudolf's dead brother. They weren't all that alike, at a second look; where Rudolf's expression was dreamy, Leopold's had been weak, and probably weaker in real life, for no doubt the great Winterhalter had been flattering his paymaster anyway. There was a hint of gnawing petulance in the curve of the lips, and a curious droop to one eyelid that made him look on the verge of delivering a furtive wink. But he was handsome, after a fashion, and no doubt he'd been complimented on the dimple in his chin.

  "What happened to Prince Leopold?" Jim asked.

  The old curator drew in a judicious breath and flicked a little glance over his shoulder. Perhaps no one had spoken to him for months, or perhaps he was an old gossip anyway; Jim came to the foot of the steps to enable him to speak confidentially.

  "The fact is that he contracted a most unfortunate marriage. An actress, I believe; Spanish; most unsuitable. King Wilhelm was beside himself with fury. The woman was banished at once - treated, I gather, with some contempt. Even cruelty, some would say. What would have happened next, I don't know; Leopold was the Crown Prince, you understand; but there was a hunting accident, and he died. The affair was forgotten. His younger brother was a much more steady character - poor Prince Wilhelm, you understand. So when Prince Rudolf... But I don't need to labour the point."

  Jim felt as if a door had opened in his mind. Everyone at court, from the King down to the scullery-maid, must have seen the parallel at once: first Leopold, and then Rudolf had married profoundly beneath them.

  And then came another little revelation: the spy! The woman in the Alhambra Theatre...

  "Well, well, well. Thank you for telling me this; I'm greatly obliged."

  He took a last look at Leopold, fixing that handsome weakness in his memory. It was hardly surprising that no one wanted to talk about him; but what other secrets were hidden in the Palace?

  The old King spent a great deal of time in Adelaide's company. Becky, shadowing her everywhere, watched and wondered as the King walked along the terrace holding her arm in the morning sunshine, or sat with her as she drove a little dog-cart along the gravelled paths. It was as if he were making amends to Adelaide for his hostility to Prince Leopold's wife; or perhaps he was simply becoming fond of her. At all events, he was keeping her to himself.

  However, in Adelaide's second week in Razkavia, he agreed that the time had come to make a formal announcement.

  He invited all the leading politicians and churchmen and landowners - all the prominent citizens of Razkavia, together with the most important Ambassadors - to a reception at the Palace the following evening.

  Since the city was now full of rumours, as Jim had foreseen, everyone's interest was enormous, and when the evening arrived, the Palace ballroom was thronged. Jim, in formal ev
ening wear, watched from the edge of the room, with a pistol in his pocket. It was a strange occasion; the Court was still in mourning, but there was an undercurrent of excitement and expectancy, and when the Royal party entered the room, every pair of eyes focused at once on the pale, slender figure of Adelaide, elegant in black, next to the Prince and just behind the King.

  Becky, only a foot or two away, saw those eyes turn, a sea of them; and felt stage-fright on Adelaide's behalf.

  The old King was walking without help, though everyone nearby could see how much effort it took. He stood on a carpeted dais and spoke loudly and clearly, but he couldn't disguise the tremor in his voice.

  "Dear Razkavians! Dear guests! At this time of mourning such a gathering as this might be thought unusual, not to say improper; but these are far from usual times. We live in an anxious world; great changes are abroad; swift and mighty developments in science and industry are taking place beyond our ancient frontiers. Among these changes three things remain steadfast: the Rock of Eschtenburg, the Red Eagle and the sacred unity of the family.

  "My dear son Wilhelm has been taken from us. But my son Rudolf steps at once into the position he vacates. And he has brought me, in the middle of our common sorrow, a great joy, which I want to share with you as soon as possible. We are in the modern age now, and circumstances change so rapidly that we have to move swiftly to keep up with them. We have to fly like an eagle. Like a Red Eagle!

  "So, my people, my friends, here is an announcement to bring you joy. My son Rudolf has married. It was a quiet marriage, and our sad loss has made any public celebration inappropriate, but our private joy, which is now a public one, is unbounded. Adelaide..."

  Becky was standing just behind Adelaide, interpreting in a quiet voice. So far it had been straightforward, but then there came a difficult part, because the old man was making a complicated pun on her name. Adel in German means nobility, and Becky had to explain that to her.

  "He's saying that birth doesn't matter when you have Adel des Herzens - that's nobility of the heart - and now he's talking about the Eagle again, the Adler, and saying that you're adlig, that's noble - and - quick! Go forward!"

  For the King was holding out his trembling hand. Adelaide gave Becky one quick look that mingled alarm and impatience with Becky's helplessness, and then looked up at the old man with such open affection that they saw it from the far end of the room. She stepped up beside him, and an aide handed the King a decoration on a ribbon.

  "Princess Adelaide," he said, placing it around her neck.

  So there it was; she was officially a princess, recognized as such by the King himself; and no one could argue with that. A few minutes later she and the Prince (and Becky) were at the centre of a circle of well-wishers, and Becky was busily interpreting their words and her replies.

  One of the first to greet her was the British Ambassador, Sir Charles Dawson, a grey-whiskered drudge who spoke to her in German. When she replied in cockney English, he nearly swallowed his eyeglass.

  "I'm a Londoner, Sir Charles. I can talk English same as what you can. Pleased to meet you."

  "I - bless my soul, I - upon my word - I - good gracious me! An English la - er - English wo - um - English, by Jove! Ha! Hrrumph! Yes, indeed!"

  The silly old buffer must have been the only person in Eschtenburg not to have heard the rumours about her, thought Becky. So much for the efficiency of the British Diplomatic Service.

  He hrrumphed away in a daze, and a little after that a giant appeared in front of them, clicked his heels, bowed, and kissed Adelaide's hand.

  His black hair was brushed straight upwards, and his moustache was so sharply waxed that Becky thought he ought to put corks on the end before kissing people with it. His black eyes glittered.

  "Count Otto von Schwartzberg," murmured an aide.

  The famous huntsman! Becky's first feeling was simply pity for any animal, wolf, elk, or mastodon, which found itself within range. Intrigued, she looked at his bear-slaughtering hands. They were the biggest she'd ever seen, and covered in scars.

  "Cousin!" he barked to Adelaide. "I am pleased to welcome you to Razkavia."

  He ignored the Prince entirely. Adelaide coolly took back her hand and said, "Thank you, Count Otto. I have heard of your exploits in the hunt. I look forward to learning about the birds and the beasts in the forest. If there's any left," she added to Becky, saying, "Don't translate that."

  Count Otto glared down at her and then burst into laughter.

  "A little English goldfinch!" he roared, and whereas in anyone less immense that volume of noise would have been insupportable, in him it seemed only natural. He wasn't made to be indoors, that was the problem; Becky thought that he would have been delightful company if he were on the other side of a valley. The Prince looked uncomfortable, but Adelaide hadn't finished.

  "Have you ever killed a goldfinch with your crossbow, Count Otto?"

  "Oh, you don't shoot goldfinches! You catch them with birdlime and keep them in pretty cages!"

  "Then you must be thinking of some other bird," she said. "English birds don't go in cages. And you don't catch eagles with birdlime, neither."

  As Becky translated this, Adelaide watched the Count arrogantly. The Prince was looking elsewhere, talking to the Archbishop, but Jim was close by, and so was the King, listening intently, and when Becky had finished translating, the old man laughed so loudly that she thought he'd choke.

  Count Otto smiled piratically. White teeth flashed beneath his moustache.

  "You have many people to talk to," he said. "Goodnight, cousin."

  He bowed again and turned his back.

  And so the evening wore on, with a continual stream of people to be introduced to, to find polite phrases for, to smile at. When all the nobles and foreign Ambassadors had been introduced, there came the turn of those further down the scale: the officials and politicians who actually ran the country. One by one they came forward, bowed, said some polite words, and went. Becky was getting dizzy; her head was ringing, her feet hurt, her throat was dry - for while everyone else had to contribute just half the conversation, she had to relay the whole of it, in both directions. In the end she had to suppress a silly hysteria that began to bubble in her breast as the shiny stoutnesses beamed and clicked and bowed, one after the other: Herr Schnickenbinder, the Mayor of Andersbad, Herr Rumpelwurst, the Inspector of Water Purity, Herr Knorpelsack, the Director of Postal Services...

  Surely those names weren't real? She must be making them up. There'd be a diplomatic incident. She'd be dismissed, imprisoned, shot. She had to blink, shake her head, concentrate hard.

  Supervising everything, making the most important introductions, seeming to float at the edge of every conversation, was the Chamberlain, Baron Godel. Becky knew who he was, and feared him without knowing why. Towards the end of the evening, at a moment when Becky wasn't needed because Adelaide was talking quietly with Rudolf, Godel beckoned her with a finger. Becky felt her heart beat faster.

  He drew her to the edge of the room and leant close. She could smell his eau-de-Cologne, the grease on his hair, the violet-scented sugar drops he sucked to sweeten his breath.

  "You are speaking too loudly," he said in his smooth, purring voice. "That is not the way for an interpreter to behave. You must speak more modestly. What is more, you should not stare rudely at the speakers' faces. There is an insolence in you which is most unpleasing. You are in danger of forgetting your place. If that happens, you will lose it."

  Becky had to look at people's faces to be sure of the shade of meaning they were intending to convey; and Adelaide herself had asked her to speak up. But there was no point in arguing with the Chamberlain: all Becky wanted was to get away from him.

  "Very good, sir," she said, and smiled sweetly when he dismissed her. Jim, who had been watching nearby, winked at her swiftly.

  And so the evening passed, and so Adelaide was formally acknowledged as a princess.

  That night, the K
ing died.

  Chapter Seven

  WHIRLPOOL

  Within ten minutes of the King's manservant bringing in his silver pot of coffee at seven, all the Palace knew that King Wilhelm was dead. Jim, ravenous for breakfast, was shaving and dressing when a footman knocked at his door and told him that he was wanted at once in Count Thalgau's room.

  He hurried downstairs and found the Count being helped into his black cravat, and as soon as he saw the expression on the old man's face, he knew what had happened.

  "His Majesty is dead?"

  "His Majesty is alive," the Count said, glaring at Jim over his bristling moustache as the valet fiddled at his neck. "KingWilhelm died peacefully in his sleep. We have now to consider quickly how best to advise and protect King Rudolf. Ach, enough, man, be on your way, I'll finish it myself," he snapped at the valet, who bowed and scuttled out.

  Jim had been going to face the Count with his discovery about Prince Leopold, and ask for more information about the Spanish actress, but this wasn't the time. The old man was stretching his chin up in the mirror, fiddling the cravat into place.

  "That'll do," he said after a final twist, and reached for his silver-backed hairbrushes. "Now listen. His Majesty isn't in charge yet, not by a long way. He's going to have a mighty struggle before he overcomes Godel and makes his own arrangements in the Palace. He can't dismiss the man - it's a hereditary position. And frankly he's not grown up enough to know his own mind, so we'll have to help him. He wants to see me in five minutes, and you in ten. In the Green Office. I'll encourage him to offer you a more responsible position, and Godel will object, but if the King stands firm he'll have to go along with it. Your job is to be patient and hold your tongue until it's decided, you understand?"