Newman thought about it. “It makes sense. I’m not saying you made it happen, just that the theory makes sense.”
“To think that I did that to someone. That’s horrible.”
“Belladonna is responsible for everyone who was killed since we arrived here. Even if all the wounded pull through that’s over twenty people.”
“She deserved to be punished. But I’m not a court. And even if we decided to execute her—eaten alive?” Goldenrod shuddered.
“If a little kid gets hold of a pistol, I mean a kid who’s never been taught safety, doesn’t even know what a trigger is. If that kid kills someone with the pistol, it’s not the kid’s fault. It’s the fault of whoever let him get hold of it.”
He could feel the tension in Goldenrod’s body. She was listening, but hadn’t relaxed. She wasn’t accepting the analogy. Or hadn’t made the connection.
“When Belladonna brought us here she gave a pistol to everyone with any aptitude for magic. You didn’t mean to shoot her. It was an accident. In a sense she shot herself.”
Now she relaxed.
Newman held her. When Goldenrod began to snore he smiled.
***
Newman let the tent flap fall shut behind him as he said, “Good morning, my Lord Autocrat.”
He walked a few paces forward, restraining his hands from locking to his sides. This wasn’t his company commander. His body still ached from the strain of yesterday’s battle but he’d be damned if he’d show it with all those with real injuries about.
“Thank you for coming, Newman. Please, sit. Are you thirsty?” Autocrat Sharpquill wasn’t in his embroidered court robe, just a plain tunic for working in.
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
Declining refreshments didn’t hurry up whatever this was. The Autocrat sat looking at Newman for as long as it would have taken to find cups and pour tea.
Newman waited him out.
“You’re a hero, you know,” said Sharpquill.
“I didn’t do much,” Newman answered with a grimace.
“Perhaps others did more. They didn’t get your results.”
That didn’t demand an answer.
“People want to acknowledge what you did yesterday.”
“I’m not much for ribbons and such.” There were a few in a box that had only been opened to put the last one in. A box still on Earth, and not missed.
“The Kingdom prefers titles, headpieces, or just bringing people up to be cheered by the whole populace. There’s some as suggested a lordship for you as the traditional first award but that wouldn’t satisfy the crowd.”
“So, what, you want to knight me?” asked Newman.
Sharpquill laughed. “I won’t say you haven’t earned it. But you’re not qualified to fight in armor. That’s the definition of a knight here. If the title went to someone without that qualification—well, I wouldn’t want to deal with the reaction.”
“So what do you have in mind?”
“To make you a baron. You get a fancy hat and are called Your Excellency, but there’s no meetings to go to.”
Newman contemplated this a moment. “Baron. All the barons and baronesses I’ve met were couples.”
“We can certainly elevate you and Lady Goldenrod together. She’s accomplished much.” The Autocrat seemed happy to make a concession.
When Newman didn’t ask for more Master Sharpquill continued, “Given the loss of King Estoc and Queen Camellia, the elevation will be on the authority of King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia.”
He said this with a bit of tension, as if Newman would consider this bad news.
That made a few pieces of camp gossip fall into place. “You don’t want to have a tournament to pick a new crown. Just have the visiting monarchs move over to reigning.”
“Yes. We’re too close to the edge to take time out for a tournament. That duel was bad enough.”
“So when I accept the title from them I’m accepting their legitimacy. And committing my prestige to them.”
“Yes.”
That called for a moment of contemplation. “Okay. I’ve only heard good things about them. We can use all the stability we can get.”
Autocrat Sharpquill let out a long breath. “Thank you. That settles one side of it.”
“I thought we were done.” At least, he’d hoped.
“Oh, we’ve made good progress on my political problems. Found a present for your girlfriend too. But that’s all favors you’re doing for other people. Not anything you want.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Newman.
“See, that’s your superego talking. Or conscience. I like the Freudian terms. Superego, ego, id. You have a muscular superego. Everything you do is for duty or honor. You don’t ask for rewards. You just accept what rewards come to you in due course.”
Newman’s face was still.
“But your id. Your id is a fucking accountant. It measures everything you’ve done. Kept a lot of us from starving. Turned that battle. No, don’t wave it off. I was there. You were at least the feather at the pivot. Now your id is counting all that up. And counting what you’re receiving. And it’s going to get unhappy if they don’t balance. People with unhappy ids do stupid shit. So, Newman Greenhorn, deep down, what reward are you hoping for? Never mind if it’s actually possible. That’s my problem. What do you want?”
The silence stretched out. The Autocrat looked patient. Newman’s gaze wandered the tent, touching on the hanging tapestries, chalked-on slates leaning against tent poles, and sheaves of papers. A closed laptop lay on the table.
“Goldenrod and I, we’d been keeping it calm. Both wanting to move slow. This was going to be our first full weekend together. After all we’ve been through I can’t imagine my life without her. I want to marry her.”
Sharpquill nodded.
“But . . . I don’t want to say, ‘hey, let’s get hitched,’ and leave her thinking I just proposed because we’re stuck here and all the other girls in camp are taken. I want to propose dramatically so she knows I
