Heir Apparent (31 page)

"It's just," Nigel said, "trusting Kenric is almost always a bad choice. I kept thinking,
No, no, no,
but you did ... twice ... and the second time it worked out ... Thank you for letting me be a good guy for once."

I opened my eyes again. "You..."—I amended that to—"Kenric ... helped me so much at the very end, when I thought it was all over..."

"Heir Apparent is a game," Nigel said. "It's supposed to be fun. Frustrating, sure, but fun. If a player starts crying, that's a signal something has gone wrong. The characters become much more helpful. It's what the programmers call The Secret Weapon."

"Oh," I said. "Well, Kenric was nice before, just especially nice at the end. And I don't usually cry. It's only I was worn-out."

Nigel smiled. "I could tell. That you don't usually cry. You're incredibly brave. And creative. And you were about to win, when the equipment began overheating."

I shuddered, remembering the fireworks, realizing how close I'd come to not making it. Sometime, later, I might be able to ask what they would have done if I wasn't at the end of the game when the equipment started shorting out. But for the moment, that was too scary. So instead I asked, "What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"What did I do differently from other people?"

Nigel considered. I guessed there were a lot of things he could have chosen from when he said, "Most players give the ring to Sister Mary Ursula, befriend Grimbold at his camp, and get Xenos Senior to take on the dragon, rather than handling it personally."

I wasn't even close.

"But your way worked, so it wasn't wrong."

The receptionist-technologist-technician knocked softly on the door, then came in with the miniature dragon on its leash. It settled on the couch-side table that held the pitcher of water. Close, but not close enough to nip. It opened its jaws, revealing many teeth and a tiny flame about the size you'd find on a match head right before it fizzles out.

"Your grandmother hasn't arrived yet," the receptionist said, "but there's a man who claims he's your father."

My
father?

My father had come
here?

She had apparently demanded his driver's license, and now she showed it to me.

Despite my amazement, I got my voice to work. "Yes, that's him."

The receptionist said, "And the second question is: Do you want to see him?"

Well, he wasn't Dexter the peat cutter, but neither was he King Cynric. I braced myself. "Sure," I told her.

And I told the tiny dragon with the butterfly wings, "Your mother has bad breath, even without the dead ox."

Then I let Nigel help me sit up, though this time I really didn't need him, and I waited for my father.

If you've decided that this book and others like it are dangerous, clip along this line, glue this page to cardboard, and fasten onto a stick. Start your own protest demonstration!

Don't corrupt the minds of our children!
Down with fantasy!