Castle Dreams (8 page)

“The decision must be made immediately,” Trent said.

“Impossible, Your Highness,” spoke the man to Tragg's right. “As Lord Tragg said, many deliberations must be made. There are many factors to be brought into the calculations. These things must be approached with some delicacy of judgment. Besides, Lord Incarnadine would have wanted it that way."

Murmurs of “Hear, hear!” around the table.

“Well-spoken, Lord Morrel,” Trent said. “Then how do you propose to deal with the situation? What happens until a regent is appointed? And what happens then?"

A man across from Tragg rose. “Your Highness. I think we are all in unspoken agreement as to the best course of action."

“Go on, Lord Baldon. What's the best course of action?"

“The Council as a whole, making up a Board of King's Regents, will govern until such time as a suitable regent is found. There is historical precedent for this. Twelve hundred years ago the untimely death of Ervoldt VII left the infant Arven his successor. The King's Council appointed various regents over the next twenty years—"

“Yes,” Trent broke in, “as a dozen factions battled for control. There was one damned palace coup after another."

“Until Arven came of age; then—"

“Baldon, don't you think it would be a good idea to avoid that kind of hugger-mugger?"

“Of course, Highness,” Lord Baldon agreed hastily. “Of course! But—” He cast his eyes around the table. “I see nothing but civilized men here. After all, these are modern times. We are not barbarians. We are not brigands. This is a democratic age."

Trent said, “But this isn't a democracy, nor should it be. The Lord of Perilous holds ultimate power. The castle is the source of all magic. One man must hold stewardship over that power. It cannot be shared. The saw about too many cooks also applies to magicians, Baldon."

“There is something to that,” said the extremely old and wizened man to Trent's immediate right.

Trent turned to him. “Thank you, Lord Yorvil."

Yorvil smiled toothlessly. “Oh, I still have a thing or two to say, even at my age, that is not completely the product of an addled brain."

“Your contributions are always welcome, I assure you. How old are you, by the way?"

“I am in my seven hundred and sixth year, Highness."

Trent was surprised. “I had no idea. Are you quite sure you're not immortal?"

“I am happy to say that I will die this winter. The soothsayers have foretold it."

“Oh. I'm..."

“Fret not, good my lord. ‘Glad did I live and gladly die, and I laid me down with a will.'”
¹

[
^1.
From a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson.]

Trent laughed. “Yorvil, you'll probably dance on my grave."

Eyes twinkling, Yorvil replied, “If so, it will be a pavane, my lord prince."

“On the contrary. I think you can still do a fine gavotte."

Yorvil chortled merrily.

The smile left Trent's face as he leaned forward, elbows on the buffed tabletop.

“Back to business. My lords, I find your plan, if you can call it that, unacceptable. The last thing this castle needs is to be thrown into a dither, a prolonged period of uncertainty fraught with internecine squabbling and general palace intrigue. That's nonsense of the first water. I won't have it."

“But, Your Highness..."

“Tragg, are you going to tell me that I'm not the heir apparent and don't have a leg to stand on? That I ought to mind my own business and get back to my trade—?"

“Oh, never, Your Highness,” Tragg protested. “Never!"

Trent sat back and chuckled. “Imagine, a prince of the realm going into trade. How positively déclassé. I guess that renders me beneath contempt. And I won't even mention my marrying a commoner!” He scanned the room once again, sizing it up. “Nevertheless...” He drifted off momentarily, then brought his attention around again. “Nevertheless, this hotel clerk is giving you an ultimatum."

All heads turned.

“Ultimatum?” Baldon said, gray brows raised almost to indignant heights.

“I might as well lay all my cards on the table. I want to rule. Hell, I've always wanted to. And now here's my chance. I want the regency, on my terms. Or..."

“Or?” Tragg said quietly.

Trent's eyes had narrowed. There was a hint of menace in them. Now they widened and a slow smile spread across his face. He sat back, lifted his left foot and rested it on the edge of the table.

“Or I'll press my claims to the throne again. Legally, this time. Through the courts."

Dismayed grumblings around the table.

Trent's grin was sly. “Oh, you don't like that, do you? Yes, years of litigation, the courts in an uproar. The expense. The uncertainty. Poor magistrates gnashing teeth in their sleep. The
expense
."

Morrel mopped the translucent skin of his forehead. “The barristers' fees will eat us alive!"

“Oh yes, oh yes.” Trent's manner was airy and casual.

“Your Highness,” Baldon pleaded. “I beg of you, spare us this travail. This was all settled
years
ago!"

“Not by my lights. Nothing was settled except that Incarnadine was crowned and I wasn't. I didn't get so much as an invite to the coronation. Pity, I would have RSVPed and everything. Had an outfit all picked out."

It was Tragg's turn to plead. “My lord prince, we cannot have this."

“Then make me Prince Regent, and I'll lay off. It's easy."

Yorvil cackled appreciatively. Trent grinned at him.

Baldon turned to the man on his left. “Lord Hivelt, as Royal Counsel and Barrister General, how do you assess the legal merits of His Highness's claim?"

Hivelt's long hair was salt-and-pepper, though he looked not much younger than the rest of the ministers. His voice, however, was strong and resonant. “It's hard to say, my Lord. There is the fraternal twin question to be considered."

Tragg huffed. “That old chestnut! A legal chimera."

“I'm not so sure,” Hivelt said.

Baldon asked, “But how would you rate His Highness's chances for making good his claim to the throne?"

Hivelt shook his head. “Ah, that's impossible to say. He does have a prima facie case, after all—"

“Really, Hivelt!” Tragg's eyes were sharply admonitory.

Hivelt shrugged. “It's the truth. As His Highness said, it would be a long bout of litigation, probably dragging on for years. There's no telling which way it would come out. Eventually, he might very well succeed in wresting the throne from Prince Brandon."

Expressions of chagrin were exchanged around the table.

Baldon leaned forward. “Your Highness, you spoke of terms?"

Trent answered, “Yes. Conditions under which I will take the job. The term of regency will extend beyond Brandon's attainment of majority. In other words, he won't be crowned until..."

Trent broke off and laughed again.

“Yes, Highness,” Tragg urged. “Until ... ?"

“Well, until I either croak or get tired of the whole mess and abdicate ... uh, step down. Then Brandon becomes Lord of Perilous and king of the realms therein."

Outrageous
was the word most whispered around the table.

“Oh, come, gentle lords,” Trent said. “I know it's a grab for power. I admit it. It's a scam, a ruse. I'll be king in all but name, not just regent. But I've been waiting for just such an opportunity all my life. Now it's here, knocking away, and I'm making my move. All legal and proper. I think I deserve the throne, and I think I was wronged by having the throne denied me. It's that simple. You may detest my methods, but my motives are pure. I simply want what is rightfully mine, what was granted me by the divine grace of the gods."

“'Legal and proper,'” Tragg scoffed. “There is a term for what you are about."

“Oh, I'm not afraid of the word. One man's blackmail is another's friendly persuasion. Sure, I'm railroading you. But you guys ... pardon my lapsing into cant. You're all past masters at the art of strong-arming. You wouldn't be in the positions you're in if you weren't. Why this sudden pretense of being shocked when the wrestling match starts going against you?"

“With respect, I object to your choice of metaphor."

Trent took his foot from the table. “Forget the rhetorical devices. I'm making you an offer you shouldn't refuse. I'll settle for a souped-up regency in exchange for signing papers to the effect that I relinquish all claims to the Siege Perilous, in perpetuity, in aeternum, et cetera. Do we have a deal?"

At the end of his patience, Tragg protested, “His Highness wants both sides of his bread buttered. He wants us to choose between making him king de facto and entertaining his pretensions to kingship de jure. In short, make him king now or wait till he outmaneuvers us and steals the throne later. Sir, we are damned if we do or don't!"

“Damned right. That's it in the proverbial nutshell. I have you guys over a barrel and you know it."

Yorvil cackled fiendishly, slapping the table.

Trent looked at him, amused.

Hivelt surveyed the room, tallying silent assent. “My lords, shall we all say that we'll take it into consideration?"

Tragg's fist hit the table. “I'll not stand for it!"

Hivelt sighed. “One objection, then. Any others?"

“I want an answer soon,” Trent said.

“Surely, sir, you'll let us consult in private before—"

“Of course, of course.” Trent's smile suddenly left him. “About the coroner's inquest..."

“There will be no autopsy,” Hivelt said.

“Huh? Why?"

“Canon law. No mutilation of the king's body is permitted."

“Not even when there's some question as to the cause of death?"

“No. Under no circumstances."

“What does Dr. Mirabilis think the cause of death was?"

“He will make a preliminary post mortem report in a few hours. However, he's limited in what he can do."

“Has he said
anything
? Guesses?"

“He did say something about heart failure."

Trent snorted. “That's a big help."

“We'll know eventually,” Hivelt said, shrugging. “Mirabilis says he has plenty of non-intrusive procedures."

“Well, that's something."

“His Highness's solicitude concerning his brother is most touching,” Tragg said. The irony fairly oozed.

Trent's manner had undergone a rapid change. He looked uneasy. But he managed a crooked grin. “Tragg, that was right over the plate. Not your usual breaking ball. Why don't you come right out and say I had him murdered?"

“Again, His Highness's choice of metaphor eludes me.” Tragg sniffed.

Baldon intervened, “I'm sure Lord Tragg means no such imputation."

“I know he does. But no matter. My lords, I must leave. Uh, one thing more. The funeral."

“A grand state funeral, of course, Highness."

Trent nodded. “Yeah, with all the trimmings, I expect. When?"

“According to canon law, the body must lie in state for ten days—"

“Ten days? Preposterous. And I'll bet no embalming is allowed either."

“Correct, Highness. But a spell of preservation will be cast."

“Right,” Trent answered dubiously. “Still, ten days..."

Baldon raised his hands in helpless appeal. “There is no relief from canon law. Am I not right, Renalto?"

The small man next to Baldon nodded. “As Minister Plenipotentiary for Religious Affairs, it is my duty to see that canon law is obeyed to the letter. I shall do so."

“Very well,” Trent said. “I'll not object to any of the mummery if I get a quick reply to my proposal."

Hivelt said, “I think we have a deal on that, at least. We ... Your Royal Highness, is anything wrong?"

A rivulet of sweat was making its way down the line of Trent's jaw. He gave his head a brisk shake. “Not a thing. I have to go. Messenger your decision to me as soon as possible."

“You will be where, sir?"

“Club Sheila. I must leave the castle for a while, but I'll be back."

Trent got up and strode out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Baldon said, “The curse. He can't stay in the castle for long."

“And he wants to be king!” Tragg looked around. “Will no one back me?"

“Back you in what?” Hivelt said.

“In thwarting the bastard, of course!"

Lord Renalto put his fingers to his lips. “Tragg, curb your tongue!"

“I care not whose spies are eavesdropping. The man must be stopped."

“How?” Hivelt asked.

“By whatever means at our disposal!"

Hivelt groaned, shaking his head. “I share Trent's aversion to squabbling and intrigue. I'm inclined to cave in to him just to avoid all that."

“Then you are a coward, sir!"

Hivelt smiled weakly. “A seasoned one. I have spent three hundred years perfecting my talents."

Baldon said dolefully, “The legal fees will be ruinous."

“A pox on the legal fees!” Tragg shouted.

“If we challenge Trent's claim, the fees will be extracted from our personal salaries,” Baldon said grimly. “And if we don't challenge, Trent will be king, not just regent."

Hivelt said, “It seems, my lords, that we are between the rocks and the whirlpool. I vote for the rocks. I say we go for Trent's deal. Last time: Are there any other objections?"

“I am in debt to my ears already,” Baldon muttered. He had commiseration around the table.

Tragg looked left, then right. He banged the table, rose, and stalked out of the room. The door slammed again.

Everyone leaned back and exhaled. There was a sense of relief, however dour the upshot.

“Somebody yank the bell pull, please?” Hivelt said.

“Let's wait till after lunch,” Morrel suggested. “We have that much face to save, at least. Make him sweat a little longer."

“Very well,” Hivelt said, rising. “I eat a lot when I get depressed. When I eat a lot, I eat Oriental. How about you guys?"