them back in order to repeat a hundred new ones.
But there were no raised voices from behind Dennis’s door, and neither of them came out for more than an hour. When they did, a single look at her husband’s white face made the poor woman feel like fainting dead away. Dennis scurried along at his father’s heels like a scared puppy.
Now Brandon was carrying the ash bucket.
“Where are you going?” she asked timidly.
Brandon said nothing. It seemed that Dennis could say nothing. He only rolled his eyes at her and then followed his father out the door. She saw neither of them for twenty-four hours, and became convinced that both were dead-or even worse, that they were suffering in the Dungeon castle.
Her dire thoughts were not so unlikely, either, for those were a terrible twenty-four hours in Detain. The day mightn’t have seemed so terrible in some places, places where revolt and up-heaval and alarms and midnight executions are almost a way of life… there really are such places, although I wish I didn’t have to say so. But Detain had for years-and even centuries-been an ordered and orderly place, so perhaps they were spoiled. That black day really began when Peter was not crowned at noon and ended with the stunning news that he was to be tried in the Hall of the Needle for the murder of his father. If Detain had had a stock market, I suppose it would have crashed.
Construction on the dais where the coronation was to take place began at first light. The platform would be a jury-rigged affair of plain boards, Anders Peyna knew, but he also knew that enough flowers and bunting would cover the rude spots. They had had no warning of the King’s passing, because murder isn’t a thing that can be predicted. If it could be, there would be no murders, and the world would almost certainly be a happier place. Besides, pomp and circumstance wasn’t the point-the point was to make the people feel the continuity of the throne. If the citizens got the feeling that everything was still all right in spite of the terrible thing that had happened, Peyna didn’t care how many flower girls got splinters.
But at eleven o’clock, construction abruptly ceased. The flower girls were turned away-many of them in tears-by the Home Guards.
At seven that morning, most of the Home Guards had begun dressing in their gorgeous red ceremonial uniforms and their tall gray Wolf-Jaw shakos. They were, of course, to form the cer-emonial double line, an aisle down which Peter would walk to be crowned. Then, at eleven, they received new orders; strange, unsettling orders. The ceremonial uniforms came off in a blazing hurry and their dull, dun-colored combat uniforms went on instead. The showy but clumsy ceremonial swords were replaced with the lethal shortswords which were everyday equipment. Impressive but impractical Wolf-Jaw shakos were cast aside in favor of the squat leather helmets that were normal battle dress.
Battle dress-the very term was distressing. Is there such a thing as normal battle dress? I do not think so. Yet soldiers in battle dress were everywhere, their faces stern and forbidding.
Prince Peter has committed suicide! That was the most common rumor which went flying about the castle keep.
Prince Peter has been murdered! That one ran a close second.
Roland was not dead; it was a mistaken diagnosis, the physician has been beheaded, but the old King is insane and no one knows what to do. That was a third.
There were many others, some even more foolish.
No one slept as darkness stole over the confused, sorrowing castle keep. All the torches in the Plaza of the Needle were lit, the castle blazed with lights, and every house in the keep and on the hills below showed candles and lanterns, as frightened people gathered to talk about the day’s events. All agreed wild work was afoot.
The night was even longer than the day. Mrs. Brandon kept watch for her men in terrible loneliness. She sat at the window, but for the first time in her life, the air was rife with more gossip than she wanted to hear. Yet for all of that, could she stop listening? She could not.
As the small hours of the morning stretched out endlessly toward a dawn that she felt would never come, a new rumor began to supplant all the old ones-it was incredible, unbelievable, and yet it was asserted with more and more assurance until even the guards at their posts were repeating it to one another in undertones. This new rumor terrified Mrs. Brandon most of all, because she remembered-too well!-how white poor Dennis’s face had been when he had come in with the prince’s ash bucket. There had been something inside, something that smelled sick and burnt, something he wouldn’t show her.
Prince Peter’s been taken in custody for the murder of his father, this awful rumor went. He’s been taken… Prince Peter’s been taken… the prince has murdered his own father!
Shortly before dawn, the distracted woman laid her head in her arms and wept. After a bit, her sobbing faded as she fell into a troubled sleep.
36
Now tell me what’s in that bucket, and be quick about it! We want no fooling, Dennis, d'you understand me?” was the first thing Brandon said when he entered Dennis’s room and closed the door behind him.
“I’ll show you, Dad,” Dennis said, “but first, answer me one question: what sort of poison was it that killed the King?”
“No one knows.”
“What were its ways?”
“Show me what’s in the bucket, boy. Do it now.” Brandon balled a great hard fist. He did not shake it; he only held it up. That was enough. “Show me now or be knocked aside.”
Brandon looked at the dead mouse for a long time, saying nothing. Dennis watched, scared, as his dad’s face grew paler, graver, grayer. The mouse’s eyes had burned until they were nothing but charred black cinders. Its brown fur had been crisped black. Smoke still rose from its tiny ears, and its teeth, visible in its death grimace, were a sooty black, like the teeth in the grate of a stove.
Brandon made as if to touch it, and then pulled his hand back. He raised his face to his son and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Where did you find this?”
Dennis began to stammer out bundles of phrases which didn’t mean a thing.
Brandon listened a moment and then squeezed his son’s shoulder.
“Draw you a deep breath and put your thoughts all in a row, Denny,” he said. “I’m on yer side in this, as I am in all else, yer know. Yer did right to keep the sight of this poor thing from yer mom. Now tell me how you found it, and where you found it.
Eased and reassured, Dennis was able to tell his father the story. His telling was a bit shorter than mine, but it still took several minutes. His father sat in a chair, one knuckle digging into his forehead, shading his eyes. He asked no questions, did not even grunt.
When Dennis had finished, his father muttered four words in an undertone. Just four words-but they froze the boy’s heart into a cold blue cake-or so it felt to him at the time. “Just like the King.”
Brandon’s lips were trembling with fright, but he seemed to be trying to smile.
“Do you suppose yonder animal was a King of Mice, Denny?”
“Dad… Daddy, I… I…”
“There was a box, you said.”
“Yes.”
“And a packet.”
“Yes.”
“And the packet was charred, but not burned.”
“Yes.”
“And tweezers.”
“Yes, like Mamma uses to pluck the hairs from out'n her nose
“Shh,” Brandon said, and dug his knuckle into his forehead again. “Let me think.”
Five minutes went by. Brandon sat motionless, almost as if he had gone to sleep, but Dennis knew better. Brandon did not know that Peter’s mother had given him the engraved box or that Peter had lost it when he was small; both of those things had happened long before Peter entered his half-manhood and Brandon came into his service. He did know about the secret panel; he had happened on this in the very first year he had served Peter (and not very far into that year, either). As I may have said, it wasn’t really a very secret compartment, as those things went just enough to satisfy such an open boy as Peter.
Brandon knew about it, but had never looked into it after that first time, when it had contained nothing more than the glorified junk that any boy calls his treasures-a Tarot deck with a few cards missing, a bag of marbles, a lucky coin, a braided bit of hair from Peony’s mane. If a good butler understands anything, he understands that quality we call discretion, which is a respect for the borders of other people’s lives. He had never looked in that compartment again. It would have been like stealing. At last Dennis asked: “Should we go over, Father, so you can look in the box?” “No. We must go to the judge-General with this mouse, and you must tell your story to him just as you’ve told it to me.”
Dennis sat down heavily on his bed. He felt as if he had been punched in the belly. Peyna, the man who ordered jail terms and beheadings! Peyna, with his white, forbidding face and his tall, waxy brow! Peyna, who was, below the King himself, the greatest authority in the Kingdom!
“No,” he whispered at last. “Dad, I couldn’t… I… I…”
“You must,” his father said sternly. “This is a turrible business-the most turrible business I’ve ever known of, but it must be reckoned with and set right. You’ll tell him just as you’ve told me, and then it’ll be in his hands.”
Dennis looked in his father’s eyes and saw that Brandon meant it. If he refused to go, his father would lay hold of the scruff of his neck and drag him to Peyna like a kitten, twenty years old or no.
“Yes, Dad,” he said miserably, thinking that when Peyna’s cold, calculating eyes fell on him, he would simply drop dead of a heart attack. Then (with rising panic) he remembered that he had stolen an ash bucket from the prince’s rooms. If he didn’t die of fright the moment Peyna commanded him to speak, he would probably spend the rest of his life in the castle’s deepest dungeon for theft.
“Be easy in your mind, Denny-easy as you can be, anyway. Peyna’s a hard man, but he’s fair. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed o? Just tell him as you’ve told me.”
“All right,” Dennis whispered. “Are we going now?”
Brandon got out of the chair and onto his knees. “First we’ll pray. Get here beside me, son.”
Dennis did.
37
Peter was tried, found guilty of regicide, and ordered imprisoned for life in the cold two rooms at the top of the Needle. All of this was done in only three days. It will not take long to tell you how neatly the jaws of Flagg’s cruel trap closed around the boy.
Peyna did not order the preparations for the coronation stopped at once-in fact, he thought that Dennis must be mistaken, that there must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Just the
