The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World (3 page)

“He is a prince,” pointed out Rufus Malagig IV. “She can’t expect everything. And he’s not that bad.”

“Oh!” said the queen. “You’re just as bad as he is. Your own son! Not content with bartering him in marriage to a wizard, you have to insult him as well. How could you!”

And, with that, the queen stormed out.

The king shifted uneasily on the throne. He took off his crown and looked at it thoughtfully, then dusted off a mark with his shirt cuff. He gave Coronado a rueful glance.

“Are you sure this is the only way?” he asked. “The only way,” confirmed the prime minister dourly. “It’s not going to be easy.” “True,” sighed Coronado. “Very true.” He wondered, idly, about the possibilities that might be open to an experienced administrator and diplomat in Heliopolis. But he was too old to start working his way up from the bottom again—or even from the middle.

“Well,” said the king, “I only hope it’s a good banquet. It might be our last.”

CHAPTER THREE

Helen stood in front of one of the few magic mirrors in Moonmansion that was still in any kind of working order. She had claimed it for her bedroom on the grounds that her need was greater than her father’s.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she recited, “who is the fairest of us all?”

“Vanity,” said the mirror, in tones of mild reproof, “is not nice.”

“You can’t get out of it like that,” said Helen. “You have to answer the question. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s a silly question,” said the mirror. “All of who? Or do I mean whom? And what do you mean by ‘fairest’? If I’m contractually bound to answer questions, then it stands to reason that you must put questions which are answerable.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, tiredly. “Do I look all right?”

“What do you mean by… ?” the mirror began, but then relented as the expression on Helen’s face began to change. “Don’t look like that,” it said. “You might crack me. You look fine. Quite lovely.”

Helen smiled, and the mirror relaxed. It always felt good when it reflected a nice smile.

There was a knock on the door and Sirion Hilversun hurried in. He was dressed in his best robes—purple ones with a neat dressing of stars around the cuffs and the hem, gathered at the waist by a silver girdle.

“The prince and his party are just coming over the hill,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” replied Helen, trying to suggest total boredom in the way that she spoke. She made some small adjustment to the placement of her hairpins.

“Then come on, come on…. We haven’t got all day.”

Helen refused to be hurried. In the ancient romances princesses never hurried. She was concentrating hard on being genteel and dignified.

In the two days which had elapsed since the idea of marrying a prince had been introduced to her she had relented slightly in her opposition to it. She had re-read a couple of the old romances, which made marrying princes seem like quite a good idea. If this Prince Damian was all that princes were supposed to be, then there might be a certain attraction in the possibility. Also, of course, her father did so desperately want this marriage to take place, and the last thing in the world that she wanted was to hurt him.

So she followed her father downstairs to the great banquet hall with feelings that were more than a little mixed. She was, if the truth be known, very apprehensive of the occasion. No one ever came to Moonmansion these

days, and she had not been accustomed to seeing people since she was very small. She was used to conversation with magical devices and all manner of creatures, and had even passed the time of day with friendly ghosts on occasion, but real people was something she had not run across in some years.

Moonmansion did not look at all its usual lazy, dusty self. It had been well and truly cleaned up and tidied, and appeared positively radiant with magical magnificence. All the cabinets full of treasure-trove trinkets which had accumulated in the attics had been hauled out, because Sirion Hilversun seemed to recall that unmagical men were very impressed by such things. Because there weren’t enough suits of armour to fill up every alcove a couple of green porcelain dragons had been brought in from the laundry room, where their outstretched arms (they were dragons rampant) were normally used to hang wet washing.

Personally, Helen thought it a little unfortunate that her father had not thought it necessary to remove the seventy-seven chiming clocks from the walls of the great hall, but at least she had dissuaded him from winding them up.

There were servants everywhere. In the normal course of affairs Helen, with the aid of a few magic spells and wonderful devices provided by her father, did most of the housework herself, and the rest went largely undone. For the special occasion, however, Sirion Hilversun had thought it polite to put on a show, and thus had rooted out an old spell for turning mice into footmen, which he had picked up cheap at an auction in his youth. Helen hadn’t really thought that it would work, but it had apparently been the property of a fairy godmother of the highest repute. Although it had a strict time clause in the small print the spell actually went off a treat.

While the enchanter and his daughter, resplendent in their most extravagant clothes, stood in the midst of all this grandeur at the foot of the stairway, two of the exmice opened the front door. One especially handsome mouse took up a position beside the best suit of armour and began announcing the guests by name. He did a first-rate job, not misplacing a single syllable.

The foreign minister and his wife led the royal party, followed by the other ministers. The king, queen and prince brought up the rear. The ministers and their wives stood to either side, forming a kind of corridor along which the royal family could advance to meet their hosts. When the whole party had been properly presented and introduced, their own servants—not one of whom was, or ever had been, a mouse—were admitted.

The big moment, of course, was the introduction of the young couple. As they were urged towards one another by their respective fathers, they exchanged long, suspicious stares.

Prince Damian should, logically, have been most impressed. Helen was a beautiful girl, although perhaps not cast in the mould of the princesses of ancient romance. She was, perhaps, a little tall and a little more healthy than those delicate and precious creatures. Her hair was cut short and her posture was aggressive rather than demure. But none of these things detracted from her beauty—and, indeed, were part and parcel of it. Nevertheless, despite it all, Damian was not overcome. He found her rather intimidating, even before he took into account any supernatural abilities. While not exactly quivering in his shoes, he was more than a little apprehensive both of her and the surroundings. His greeting was lukewarm, to say the least.

Helen had a little more excuse for her lack of enthusiasm. Even carefully dressed up, the prince seemed undersized and sallow of complexion. His features were not exactly unhandsome, but their aspect was ruined by the expression which he wore—a mixture of vanity and nervousness, with a slight hint of slyness. Helen was not impressed. Not at all.

The encounter—indeed, the whole banquet to which it was a prelude—was something of a failure. It never really got under way. The food was excellent, but the guests did not quite trust it. They were all too well aware that the Arts Magical had been involved in its preparation. In Caramorn, the Arts Magical was definitely one of those subjects not suitable for discussion in mixed company. Unfortunately, the mixed company in Moonmansion on this occasion could discover few topics of conversation which did not touch upon them, and for this reason a certain awkwardness preyed upon all of the table talk.

It was not long before virtually everyone was looking forward expectantly to the time when the guests could tactfully take themselves back to Jessamy. They had prudently decided not to spend the night in the magic lands. Both Rufus Malagig IV and Sirion Hilversun tried hard to inject some real bonhomie into the occasion, but the atmosphere defeated even the diplomatic talents of Coronado. Helen and Damian exchanged contemplative glances over the soup, but by the time the main course arrived they had each decided that the whole idea was unworthy of serious thought. Each, independently, settled on a policy of ignoring the other. They both became very quiet and resistant to questions addressed to them from elsewhere, retreating into invisible shells from whence it was impossible to coax them. Even when th time came for the farewells and au revoirs they stood apart.

The enchanter and the king exchanged expressions of hearty good fellowship and wished one another well. Tactfully, they avoided any overt reference to the marriage or the likelihood of any formal engagement. Then they parted, each to apply himself to his own part of the problem.

When all the guests had gone, and the footmen had turned back into mice, while candles cast a dim light over the banqueting table and left the suits of armour and porcelain dragons to the gloomy shadows, Sirion Hilversun and his daughter sat together, sadly and apprehensively. They were both full of food, and neither wanted an argument. Helen’s anger and resentment were at a low ebb.

“I know he’s not the sort of prince you find in story books,” said the enchanter, “but few real princes are. But he’ll grow a little yet, and with a little encouragement.”

“I don’t want to marry him,” said Helen flatly.

“He is a prince,” said the enchanter.

“I’d rather marry a swineherd. What’s so important about princes?”

“You don’t know,” said Sirion Hilversun, in a low voice. “You don’t understand.” To him, it was important … as important as anything could be. He wanted to die knowing that his daughter was secure, and the greatest security there could be—the greatest security he could imagine—was that of being married to the heir to a throne. He had always wanted the best for Helen, and a prince, by definition, was the best. Had he known about the grievous state of Caramorn’s economy, his attitude would have been different. But he didn’t. And neither did Helen.

Helen looked hard at her father, who was looking just now as old and as feeble as he had ever looked. She knew as well as he did that the fading of his remarkable memory and the fading of his magical powers were the inevitable preludes to his death. She accepted that as he did. And she wanted very much to ease his mind. She knew that the only way to do it was to give in to his stubbornness—but she also knew that there was no way on Earth that she was going to marry Damian of Caramorn.

She hunted in her mind for a way out of the dilemma.

All of a sudden she remembered something she had read long before, in one of the romances of which she was so fond.

“Father,” she said, trying to sound perfectly calm and sensible. “I’ll marry your prince on one condition. If he can prove that he’s not a fool by answering three questions that I will put to him, then I’ll marry him.”

Sirion Hilversun stared at her thoughtfully. He had read that story too. The young lady in question had never intended to marry at all, and she had asked questions which she considered to be unanswerable. He could see Helen’s strategy quite clearly. But the enchanter also remembered the end of the story, when a prince had come who could answer the questions. And that romance had ended happily. He hesitated, wondering what to say.

“That’s very unusual,” he said.

“It’s been done before,” answered Helen, reasonably. “And you wouldn’t want me to marry a worthless prince, now would you? You’d want me to marry one with a little common sense, a little cleverness, and perhaps a little initiative. If Prince Damian hasn’t any of those qualities he’d be a most unsuitable husband. I’m sure you’ll agree with that.”

“Perhaps,” said the enchanter, slowly. “Perhaps.”

“1 think you should write a letter first thing tomorrow morning,” urged Helen.

“I can’t help thinking,” said the enchanter, “that it’s a little unfair. After all, the prince is a prince and you’re the daughter of a fairly mediocre magician. He might feel very insulted by such a demand.”

“Fair enough,” replied Helen, thinking quickly. “You can tell him that the offer applies both ways. If he’ll prove himself by answering my questions. I’ll prove myself by answering his. Three each. Who could object to that?’

Sirion Hilversun gave a low laugh. “I suppose you intend to play this game fairly,” he said. “No daughter of mine would think to cheat by failing to answer a question that was put to her, and thus break the marriage contract.”

“How could you suggest such a thing?” asked Helen, with an attitude of outrage that was almost wholly genuine. “When I play a game I play it by the rules. Believe you me, if that weakling prince can answer my questions, I’ll answer his. No one’s ever going to say that I was unworthy to marry a creature like that. I have my pride, you know.”

“I know,” murmured Sirion Hilversun. “I know.”

The more he thought about it, the more the enchanter saw the suggestion as a way out—one way that perhaps everyone could be happy. If Damian really could answer the questions, and test Helen with some good ones of his own, then they might actually win one another’s respect—something they had conspicuously failed to do earlier that evening.

There was, of course, a strong element of wishful thinking involved in Sirion Hilversun’s contemplation. He still had certain illusions about the nature and talents of princes that owed more to stories and legends than any trustworthy experience. But it is always easy to believe when you desperately want to believe.

There was something more. While he thought about the idea, a thin fragment of memory wound itself into his thoughts… something about questions and answers, and letters exchanged… something momentous. He couldn’t remember anything specific, but he was suddenly seized by the notion that this suggestion was very important, and that on this decision might hang more than he could suspect. Something in his mind said that this was the most important decision of his life, and that he must take it correctly.

A shiver ran suddenly down his spine.