“But Your Highness can not possibly comprehend the ramifications of the problems from a condensed—”
“Why should I comprehend?” he cried, pressed past endurance. “I don’t comprehend. I will never comprehend. I see a different world than you ministers see. On ascending to this throne, I took an oath to rule the world of Kamir. That world, though much diminished, still had seas and forests and animals. You are destroying that world. Greater comprehension would only increase my sense of futility.” The Lost King rose from his throne, turned his back upon his minister, and stalked to a nearby window that stood open to let in the fresh breezes of early spring.
He had escaped on a day much like this—it had been late fall, not spring, but on a similar day—slipping out this very window in the darkness before dawn, across the velvet lawns, into the trees. Once Tarnen was gone, this royal park would contain all the trees left on Kamir. He had thought of that as he had walked through them that day toward his cache of clothing and money and documents, hidden away bit by inconspicuous bit over a long, long time of preparation. He had emerged on the far side of the trees dressed as an Elithan, and he had slipped into the crowd that always stood there, staring at the palace, to stand for a time himself, staring at the palace, before he went away.
He had taken ship for Elitha, unremarked, unnoticed, calling himself Osterbog Smyne, a common Elithan name. He had reached Elitha. Oh, with what eagerness had he taken up a new life as a nobody on Elitha. If not for that damnable Leelson Famber, Osterbog Smyne would be on Elitha still, keeping a fruit stall, taking his holidays in the forests, watching birds, maybe even going fishing, far from ministers and reports and briefings and the whole irrelevant, endless fal-de-rol of kingship.
“Your Majesty is so deep in thought, one assumes he is considering marriage and the production of an heir,” said a pontifical voice from behind him. So. The Minister of Agriculture had called for assistance, and here was Lord Zhoun, the Prime Minister, the quintessence of boredom, the paradigm of duty undesired.
Jiacare Lostre murmured, “I’ve told you, I’ve no intention of begetting a child to carry on this charade. The planet is within a year or so of being Class G. Soon you’ll be directing the aristocracy to turn in their pets for euthanizing. Soon will come Class-J domed cities, which will grow, and grow, until they make a glittering ceiling over the final convulsions! You know how it will end, how it always ends. The Scroll of Establishment contains no requirement that I be part of the process.”
“Common sense would indicate—”
“Common sense, hah! Focus on one of my no-doubt-eager brothers or nephews. Groom half a dozen of them for this thankless ascendancy.”
“Your Majesty, please …”
“Prime Minister, please!”
“You used to call me Uncle.”
“You used to call me Jickie, Lord Zhoun, and you used to tell stories of adventure and mystery. You used to like to go riding. Remember horses? You even took me fishing once. When father was alive, you were quite a nice fellow.”
“When your father was alive, he attended to his duty.”
“In a manner of speaking, Uncle. My father, though beset by uncontrollable and inappropriate affection for small girls, was in most respects a very good king. He had no convictions to confuse him. He was impressed by ritual and dedicated to traditions. He complied with them well, but then he had certain talents I do not.”
“Jickie!”
“It’s true, Uncle. Father was quite open with me. As I had four older brothers, he felt free to tell me things he would never have told the heirs. First, he had taught himself not to care about anything but sensation. Then he taught himself to sleep while sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open. He could do this either while upon the throne or upon horseback, and he was invariably asleep while you and the others read your interminable accounts of continuing destruction. He told me this, enjoying his cleverness, without realizing the effect it had on me. Of course, he never thought I’d ascend the throne.
“Unfortunately, I lack his simplicity. My existence is entirely symbolic, yet I am expected to behave as though my thoughts and acts had significance. My office could be filled by an android. Indeed, an android would do my job far better. It could be programmed, as my father was. It could smile gently and pay no attention to the destruction going on around it.”
“I thought when Leelson Famber found you—”
“You paid Famber to bring me back!” the king snarled. “You paid him!”
The Prime Minister shook his head, confused at the vehemence of this reaction. “Actually, no, Jickie, we didn’t. We were worried about you! We paid Fastiga a fee to ascertain what had happened to you. They assigned him to the task, that’s all.”
“Ah.” The Lost King turned on his minister with an expression both wild and strange. “You didn’t mention that when I returned. Nor since, come to that.”
“You never asked,” said the Prime Minister, astonished into a loss of aplomb. “You never asked, Jickie.”
The king turned back to the window, unable to hide his emotions: anxiety, rage, regret, what? All those Fambers, even now being disposed of! Well, few enough of them compared with the population of a planet. And were they not foremost among Firsters? And were not Firsters his enemies, now and forever?
The window beside him reflected his pale face, a ghostly image superimposed over the distant trees. That long Lostrel nose. That triangular Lostrel mouth. The very face of dynasty hiding the person of …whom?
Who had he been, there on beautiful Elitha? Who might he have become? Famber the Fastigat hadn’t
