Heir Apparent (14 page)

Was he officially resigning his post, or did he expect me to punish him by chopping off his head?

I told him, "Take the sword back. We"—I was getting better at remembering that royal
we
—"simply need to be more vigilant from now on. Come on, apparently it's time to eat." I wasn't going to miss lunch again.

Penrod
did
accept the sword back, then started with me toward the Great Hall.

"Speaking of being vigilant," I said, "did your guards see Counselor Rawdon leave?"

Penrod nodded. "He frequently goes to visit his aged mother in the country."

"Very commendable," I said. "But you'd think he could skip it on the day the new king arrives."

"I gather he's her sole support," Penrod said, "and she's the sole support of several grandchildren from Rawdon's two brothers and three sisters, who all died. He brings great bundles of food for them, but seemingly it's never enough. This morning his packhorse was exceptionally laden."

"Sounds like the family has had incredibly bad luck," I said. I got distracted by the thought that I knew all about grandmothers raising kids, but at least my parents were still both alive. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

"He's said she lives in the town of Fairfield, which is two hours' ride off to the west. Usually when he goes, he spends the majority of the day with her."

We arrived at the Hall, where lunch had already started. The two thrones had been pushed against the farthest wall, right to the leaded-glass window. Dozens of long tables had been brought in, at which people sat, evidently divided by rank. The royal family was at one table at the far end of the room, near the thrones, away from the drafts from the doors and from the bustle of servants toting platters of food and refilling people's cups. I couldn't help but notice that they'd started without me and that they'd left no room for me.

Sir Deming and Sister Mary Ursula sat with a group that had to be the queen's ladies-in-waiting, for I recognized Lady Cynthia from a couple games back. Sister Mary Ursula was still talking to Deming, even though he'd arranged to sit two people down from her. Those servants who weren't serving the food were at one cluster of tables, and then there were lots of other tables for the guards, although there were many empty places for those who were away, busy manning the walls or pursuing barbarians. Dogs roamed among the tables, snapping up Men scraps of food (which would have outraged my grandmother, who believes dogs belong outside, guarding the house or helping the blind).

Penrod hesitated, not knowing whether I was finished with him and if he should go sit with his men.

I couldn't start making decisions if the adviser I was most inclined to speak with wasn't here. I asked Penrod, "Do you think we could send one of your men to fetch Rawdon?"

Penrod immediately tapped one of his men on the shoulder. "Go to Fairfield," he ordered. "The princess commands Rawdon's presence."

The guard stood, shoving a half loaf of bread under his arm and as much food as he could fit into his mouth. I told him, "Be sure to tell Counselor Rawdon he'll be welcome to return to his family in a few more days." Rawdon would be of little use to me if he was ticked off at having his family outing cut short. "Be polite," I called after the man, then remembered to add, "please."

It suddenly occurred to me that for this particular game, the magic-users had not been summoned. "And Captain," I said to Penrod, "please send a message to..." Was it Xenos or Uldemar who had the scrying glass? "I'd like to call to the castle those who know magic."

"Orielle, Uldemar, and Xenos," Penrod said. He smacked another of his men on the arm.

"Thank you," I said. "In all haste, please."

Finally I went to the head table.

They were all sitting on benches along one side of the table: Queen Andreanna, Wulfgar, Abas, and Kenric. The queen was making fun of someone I didn't know, an abbot who apparently was very hard of hearing—in fact, practically deaf. Andreanna was imitating this poor guy, saying, "'What did you say?
What?
Oh, you said you couldn't have been the one to murder the blacksmith because you had
no reason
to do it? I thought you said you had
a Norwegian
do it.'"

Very
politically incorrect.

The princes were all so engrossed in this merriment that by sheerest coincidence not a one of them noticed me standing there with no place to sit.

They were spread out—four on a bench that looked long enough for six or seven. Their butts weren't
that
big. If they'd all moved over just a bit, there'd have been room for me.

The Hall still buzzed with conversation, but I knew everyone was waiting to see how I would react. Would I be intimidated and slink off to another table? Would I meekly request my family to make space for me? Would I make a scene and
demand
that they make space for me?

I crooked my finger at one of the servants. The noise level was so high, I had to put my mouth to his ear to make sure I was heard. "Get me the king's throne," I ordered.

The servant was aghast. "Surely not for eating in?" Was he worried I'd dribble gravy on the velvet cushion? He glanced around and pointed out a spare bench, a short one, made for three skinny butts, or two regular-size ones, or one royal one.

Yeah,
I thought,
and do what? Set up a TV tray?
"The throne," I repeated.

The conversation abruptly stopped when the servant, with the help of another man, picked up the throne.

Staggering under its weight, they carried it toward where the royal family sat, then saw that—unless the royals moved their bench (and why would they, when they hadn't budged yet?)—there was no room.

I pointed to my feet, to indicate,
Right here.

The servants came around to where I was, and placed the throne dead center on that side of the table.

I sat down and looked into the startled faces of my family. "There." I smiled brightly and settled my skirt as though it was a voluminous gown, like the queen's. "Isn't this nice?"

And it was, except that the roast pig had been placed before them, so I was looking at his curlicued rear end, not the world's best view.

A servant came rushing up with a bowl of rose-petaled water and a towel, to wash and dry my hands. Other servants provided a dish heaped with slabs of roast pork and luscious fresh fruits, and a cup of mead (which is a sweet beer or wine or something, disgusting in my point of view, and I'm amazed Rasmussem gets away with serving alcohol—even virtual alcohol—to minors).

Kenric leaned forward and told me, "You're sitting on the serving side of the table."

"No," I said firmly, "all of you are."

He considered that for a moment, then gave his extraordinary smile that had caught my notice during the promos.

Wulfgar glared; I was beneath the queen's notice, so she angled herself on the bench to face Wulfgar and began talking to him about the quality of the peaches; and Abas decided I needed an instant replay of his battle against the three barbarians in the courtyard.

I was pleased to note that Wulfgar didn't tear into his meat as a beast would but ate with the same degree of table manners as everybody else.
Those
manners were about equal to what you'd see in an elementary school cafeteria. I could live with that.

"You
were
fantastic," I assured Abas when he paused to take a breath. "One of them mentioned something about a crown—the crown of Brecc." I looked at each of them in turn and was able to tell nothing. "Any of you know anything about that?"

Kenric said, "Father won a crown from one of the barbarian kings."

"Won how? You mean he killed him? Or overcame him in battle? Or he won it in a poker game?" My subconscious tried to warn me the people of this time would not play poker; the phrase
a game of dice
bubbled up.

But the Rasmussem programs are sophisticated enough to ignore most anachronistic phrases and references, otherwise the game would constantly be delayed by the characters saying things like, "
OK?
I do not understand this
OK
of which you speak." Kenric blinked. Perhaps
his
subconscious—if he had one—told him poker must be some peasant gambling game he'd never heard of before. Or perhaps he just chose to ignore one of the many inane things I'd said. He said, "He won it in a tournament."

Abas interrupted. "I wasn't old enough to participate in that particular tournament except in the capacity of a page helping the squires help the knights get into their armor, but I remember it well. Two years later was my first—"

"In a moment, Abas," I said. "So your father won the tournament, winning the loser's horse and equipment."

"Yes," both Abas and Kenric said. But Abas was inclined to add a blow-by-blow account of the event.

I went ahead and talked right over him. "But if your father won the crown fairly, why do the barbarians feel they have a right to demand it back?"

"Because they
are
barbarians," Abas said.

Which I would have accepted, but Kenric's lips twitched and he chose that moment to lift his cup to his mouth.

"What?" I demanded.

Kenric answered with a question of his own. "Who said anything about winning it fairly?"

"Kenric!" his mother snapped. "That's no way to talk about your father."

From the look he gave her, I gathered he wasn't used to hearing her defend King Cynric's good name.

"Well," Abas admitted, "there
were
certain questions..."

"He cheated," I said. "You're saying he won the crown by cheating. So now the barbarians want the crown back and—in fact—they probably have every right to it."

Kenric shrugged, indicating his indifference to moral nuances.

Abas spoke slowly so I would understand. "No, he won the event, so he won the crown."

Wulfgar was gnawing, with alarming energy, every last bit of meat off a bone, but at least he had the bone raised to his mouth, rather than sinking his face into the pig carcass.

Queen Andreanna was making one of the dogs stand on its hind legs and beg for a strip of meat.

"So where is this crown?" I asked.

"I don't know," Kenric said.

Abas shook his head to indicate he didn't, either.

"Wulfgar?"

"Dunno."

"Your Highness?"

She gave me a blank look. "I'm sorry, what? Were you saying something? I wasn't listening."

Though I'd already seen she had been, I explained, "The crown your late husband won from the barbarian king at the tournament several years back, whatever happened to it?"

"I'm sure I have no idea," she told me.

I summoned one of the servants. "Could you please get that bench"—I indicated the one I had been offered earlier—"and bring it here, then invite Sir Deming and Sister Mary Ursula to join us."

"On the serving side of the table?" the servant asked.

"On
this
side of the table," I corrected him.

When the two advisers had sat down, I explained about the crown and asked if they knew where it was.

"Perhaps in the king's treasure room?" Sister Mary Ursula suggested.

Deming shook his head. "He gave it to the dragon."

"What dragon?" I asked.

Deming sniffed at my ignorance. "The one that was ravaging the southern provinces eight years ago, burning fields, scattering livestock, devastating manor houses, demanding maiden sacrifices."

The faintest hint of imposed memory tickled at the edges of my brain. I'd only been six, and the southern provinces were nearly a week's journey from the safety of St. Jehan, but I had heard people talking.

I said, "Excuse me, I don't understand. This dragon was eating cows, horses, and maidens, and then King Cynric bought him off by giving him a crown that had been won at an iffy tournament?"

Deming rolled his eyes, and the queen gave him a sympathetic look like,
I know, I know.
Deming said, "Dragons like gold."

"And a crown," Sister Mary Ursula added, "that would make the dragon feel as One with all the other kings."

OK. I guessed it made sense. "Do we know where this dragon lives?" I asked.

"No," "Nope," "Haven't a clue," they all told me.

"Any idea how we can find out?"

"No," "Nope," "Haven't a clue," they all repeated.

But then Deming speculated, "Maybe one of the magic-users knows something or could find out."

Waiting for the magic-users again. Estimated time of arrival: tomorrow, if I remembered correctly from last time. And I did. I was working on a deadline—never mind the awful pun.

"Oooo, magic," Sister Mary Ursula said. "Nasty stuff. Best to keep away from it."

"As much as possible," I assured her, just to keep her happy.

Deming sighed. "If," he said, sounding as though each moment of speaking politely was an effort, "
if
you're determined to return the crown of the barbarian king, may I point out to you that the king is, in fact, currently separated from his head, thanks to our prince Abas—and I would consider this a serious drawback to the enjoyment of wearing a crown."

"Good point," I said. "We'll send a messenger to the barbarian camp, apologizing for the unfortunate death of their king, which happened by mischance since he did not openly declare himself but led a raiding party into the castle courtyard. As a sign of our goodwill, we will forgive this raid and return the crown to King Grimbold's successor."

Deming pursed his thin lips. "Do you think they'd accept
an apology
for the killing of their brand-new king?"

Andreanna was looking directly at me as she answered, "I would. Accidents happen."

I could imagine. I forced a smile at her. To Deming, I said, "It's the best we can do. See to the sending of a messenger. Now, what about the unrest among the peasants?"

"Our laws are too harsh," Sister Mary Ursula said.

"Too lenient," Deming countered.

"I liked the death penalty," Abas said, "before you abolished it. Can we bring it back now?"

We never really came to a conclusion. I felt I didn't know enough to ask the right questions, and nobody volunteered much of interest.