Wisdom's Kiss (18 page)

The emperor spoke the ritual from memory, having performed it countless times, several for me, and while his words on this occasion may not have carried the same passion that they did at my nuptials, he held the attention of every observer. Roger, too, with firm confidence uttered his vows, his voice reaching the farthest corners of the colossal edifice. Wisdom, I am sorry to report, for I had heretofore held her showmanship in high regard, stumbled repeatedly, and once failed to speak altogether, so anxious did she seem, so that Rüdiger was forced to repeat himself, though he handled this with finesse.

The vows completed, the ceremony moved to a tradition unique to Farina, in which the groom's mother presents wine to the couple that they may toast each other, and her. The tradition (it is sometimes insinuated) demonstrates that hereafter the bride will be serving the every need of her husband and mother-in-law; surely such was not the case at this wedding, however smug Wilhelmina may have appeared, and however quickly it was that she trotted across the stage with her two goblets, thrusting the smaller into Wisdom's limp hand. The princess consented to wet her lips, but Wilhelmina lifted the goblet again and insisted that the girl as custom dictates swallow every drop. Only after Wisdom, struggling, achieved this did the duchess proffer the larger bejeweled vessel to her son and nod in satisfaction as he drained it.

Rüdiger then escorted the couple—Wisdom stumbling slightly—onto a low dais directly before the imperial coat of arms, driving home with gesture as well as word the supremacy of empire over duchy. He spoke at length on the history of Lax and of Farina's tradition of subservience. The duchess absorbed this narrative with a visible scowl, Queen Benevolence with apprehension, while Wisdom, ever paler, wrung her hands, and Roger radiated naive delight. The finale of the emperor's speech is recorded here verbatim, as I transcribed it for use in a future production.

"And so with a kiss will this ceremony be concluded," the emperor stated. "The kiss is the seal, rendering immutable the vows so recently exchanged between this princess and this duke"—here looking from Queen Benevolence, who after a moment nodded, to Duchess Wilhelmina, whose scowl transformed into a triumphant smile. "If there be anyone who challenges this union in the name of statecraft or love, speak now, or for ever after will these two souls and their realms be bound."

The emperor paused to look across the crowd, and every man held his breath to listen. I heard a step and a rustle, and my heart beat fast at the drama of my young Tips so theatrically claiming the woman he loved...

But no, it was only a banner rustling, and the step belonged to no one. My brilliant imagination had once again bested my reason. Onstage, Wisdom bit her lip, her eyes squeezed tight. I can only infer the great emotions surging within her lovely young bosom.

Rüdiger continued: "Gentlemen and ladies, men and women, children among you, family members"—here gazing firmly at Wilhelmina—"remove your hats and withdraw your handkerchiefs that we may all of us mark this marriage." He nodded at Roger, who, beaming, stepped toward his bride. For a long moment the princess stared into his face. With a deep and expressive sigh, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.

At once the hush erupted into deafening cheers, as everyone present—including even Her Majesty and Her Most Noble Grace—tossed hat and handkerchief into the air. What a glorious moment and what a fantastic spectacle, that multitude of cloth and feathers (though none of the hats quite so glorious as mine) fluttering through the air like a heavenly flock of birds. How we applauded! How we saluted! For who does not enjoy a wedding, even one with a bride as reluctant as this?

It was only after some minutes that the great room grew quiet, and I began to ponder the length of that matrimonial embrace, the duke clutching his bride so tightly. And then—oh, how my heart breaks to write this!—Roger turned, Wisdom in his arms, and howled in sorrow, his anguish silencing the last revelers.

"She is dead!" he cried. He held her out to the assembly, and as one we gasped to observe her head loll back and one shapely arm swing dully. "She kissed me and she died! Help me! Help me, someone! Help me to restore Wisdom's kiss!"

8
TH EDITION

Printed in the Capital City of Rigorus
by Hazelnut & Filbert, Publishers to the Crown

WILHELMINA THE ILL-TEMPERED (CONTINUED)

As per Wilhelmina's demands, Rüdiger the following day married the Duke of Farina to Wisdom of Montagne. Wisdom's collapse at the exact moment of the couple's nuptial kiss remains one of the great unsolved mysteries in the history of Lax. Alchemic investigation of the goblet and the wine with which the princess had enacted the traditional Farina wedding toast revealed no trace of poison, nor could the empire's physicians and autopsists explain her expiration. Yet all evidence pointed to Duchess Wilhelmina, who had filled the goblet, presented it to the bride, and forced her to empty the glass. Despite her most vehement protestations of innocence, the duchess was tainted forevermore by the scandal, and it is believed the term "the willies" derives from a vulgar threat to "give someone the Wilhelmina treatment"— that is, to poison them. However disgraced she may have been to her countrymen and peers, however, Wilhelmina was never tried for the crime; indeed, she succeeded in her objective of binding the Duchy of Farina in perpetuity to the throne of Montagne. Nor, it emerged, was this the full extent of her far-reaching and devious stratagem...

T
HE
S
TORY OF
F
ORTITUDE OF
B
ACIO,
C
OMMONLY
K
NOWN AS
T
RUDY, AS
T
OLD TO
H
ER
D
AUGHTER

Privately Printed and Circulated

TRUDY WAS SO TIRED that she could barely remain upright. A night without sleep and a full day of travel had left her with a brain of sand, and in her exhaustion and strain she saw danger behind every sapling and low-hanging cloud. So it was that she crept to the kitchen entrance of a roadside tavern and begged a bowl of soup before the evening rush. With food in her belly, she'd have strength enough to push on to the next lodging place, for she had three more days of walking to reach the border of Bacio.

Wearily she sat to eat, laying beside her the sack holding her few clothes, the earrings, and Tips's letters—all her possessions in the world. Staff soup it was, and well she knew such amalgams of leftovers and yesterday's meat, in this case gamy if not yet turned, though she was too spent to care. She ate quickly, struggling not to dwell on Tips and the aching hole he had left in her heart. How would she bear Bacio? His letters, the promise of his return, of their union, had made her life—if one could call so colorless an existence a
life
—worth living. Without him, she had nothing.

Hoofbeats pounded toward her, and suddenly horses and men crowded the graveled yard. Trudy gasped: these were the duke's men-at-arms, the very soldiers who had tried to help her find Tips! Oh, she could not bear the embarrassment of being recognized! She pulled tighter the kerchief around her head and drew her rough cape close.

The soldiers, however, did not notice the girl cowering in the shadows, but instead tramped through the main entrance calling for victuals. A babble of voices rose within as guests questioned the new arrivals. Had they any news of the duke's wedding?

The wedding had taken place, confirmed one man. But his voice was heavy, and somberly he reported that the princess had collapsed at the service, and that certain busybodies with no loyalty to their state whispered of poison.

Wisdom poisoned? Trudy could not believe it! Certainly she did not care for the princess (to put it mildly), but she would never wish her ill, or ... or dead. This was shocking news. Shocking and awful.

The man continued speaking, silencing the jabber. He and his men had raced from Froglock on a crucial mission. Had anyone seen a red-haired lady-in-waiting? This ... female had departed Froglock before dawn, and Her Most Noble Grace feared the lady carried information she should not. For the safety of the duchy—of the empire—she must be found, and returned to the capital to be tried and punished!

Listening to this, Trudy quaked in fright. Against her better judgement, her legs trembling, she eased herself up until she could see inside the tavern. There, past the harried kitchen staff, she managed to catch sight, just for a moment, of the speaker, who so filled Trudy with horror that it was all she could do not to shriek.

She must run—fly!—escape this place! If they dared assassinate a
princess,
what might they do to a simple orphaned...

No, she could not panic! Not with her life hanging in the balance. Clawing her kerchief ever tighter about her face, she slid down the wall, praying with every fiber of her being that the movement not be spotted.

Gingerly she set the empty soup bowl on the doorstep, and gingerly she lifted her sack. Oh, how she wanted to sprint away! But such haste would draw the attention of every soldier within the tavern. Her only hope lay in anonymity, in making herself so nondescript that these murderous men could not possibly pay her notice.

And so Trudy, though her heart screamed to bolt straightaway, instead dawdled across the courtyard and out to the road.

Up the muddy way she trekked, keeping to the shadows as much as she could, forcing herself not to look back. She could imagine their probing eyes studying her, wondering who that lass might be, why she traveled alone, and what was under that kerchief ... Stop! she scolded herself. If the soldiers didn't dispatch her, her own frenzied terrors would.

She scrutinized the steep hill before her. If she could just make it to the crest, that would be success enough—she could see it. Then she could take refuge in the woods without raising alarm by creeping off the road. Once over this hill, she knew, she would be safe...

Walking as quickly as she dared, panting at the effort, Trudy began to climb. The breeze intensified—and her kerchief blew off! Trudy lunged, but already the accursed wind had snatched it away, and snatched her hair as well, sending her long locks—brilliantly red, even in the cloudy gloom!—fluttering in all directions.

Trudy struggled to restrain her hair. Now released, however, every strand whipped about maddeningly. How could they not notice her with hair flying like a crazed flag! Hot tears of frustration stung her eyes—she was at wits' end—and then she heard a distant shout. She had been spotted!

Blind with panic, Trudy stumbled, then began to sprint. Another shout, and another—now she raced full-out, pounding with the desperate illogic of a doe run to ground—

A great blow caught her broadside, knocking her breath from her body.

FELIS EL GATO

Impresario Extraordinaire ♦ Soldier of Fortune
Mercenary of Stage & Empire

LORD OF THE LEGENDARY
FIST OF GOD
Famed Throughout the Courts and Countries of the World
&
The Great Sultanate
*
THE BOOTED MAESTRO
*

W
RITTEN IN
H
IS
O
WN
H
AND
~A
LL
T
RUTHS
V
ERIFIED
~
A
LL
B
OASTS
R
EAL

A Most Marvelous Entertainment. Not to Be Missed!

***

GREAT DRAMA has always compelled my full attention, and I bore no small connection to beautiful, delicate Wisdom, having revealed her innate artistry only the previous day. While others grieved the loss of their
princess,
I could not but grieve as well the loss—so senseless! so theatric!—of one of the grandest performers, if only for a night, of the grand Circus Primus. For no sooner had the Princess of Montagne wedded handsome Duke Roger than she collapsed ... poisoned!

Most repugnantly, the perpetrator of this fiendish act—not an observer could deny—was none other than Her Most Noble Grace, Duchess Wilhelmina.
She
had pushed the goblet into the girl's reluctant hand, had handed the
other
goblet to her son. Were I to stage a poisoning (not that ever I have, though on several occasions I have been sorely tempted, most especially with my third wife, and well would the harridan have deserved it), I could not have orchestrated it more artfully. Nor did it require the genius of the great Felis el Gato to find Her Most Noble Grace's denials too fervid, particularly in light of the animosity and calculation that had always marked her relations with Montagne.

The poison operated most sinisterly. Never in my remarkable life have I encountered such a malevolent toxin; the many physicians summoned to the palace, experienced in their own way, concurred that the substance baffled them as well. The princess, laid out in the banquet hall in which the couple was to celebrate their union (carried across its threshold by her new husband, a gesture so visibly romantic that I emulated it at my subsequent weddings, and now thanks to my example it is a tradition in several countries, though modern grooms forbear from weeping), was quite obviously expired and could not be revived by any touch, sound, or scent. And yet her heart would occasionally manage one soft beat, and a mirror held to her exquisite lips would, after several minutes, film over, however briefly, with a faint breath of life.

Gladdened as I and others were to observe that the princess had not entirely passed through the gates of death, this situation in its way was even crueler, for it filled our breasts with the intoxication of hope—and hope's torment. Equally tantalizing was the belief that Her Most Noble Grace would divulge the antidote, or at least the poison's name, that the authorities might furnish a cure. The duchess, however, continued to insist to her increasingly skeptical listeners that she had played no role in this intrigue. When at one point her son fell to his knees imploring his mother's help, she berated him in the harshest tones for his histrionics—a response, as I could have warned her if only she had sought my counsel, that blackened her further to the populace, and the emperor.