It was twenty past seven, he was seated with the prince and the princess in the king's private dining room, and they were waiting for King Lional to arrive.
Noticing him trying not to notice his nose, the prince blushed and laughed. He sounded like a lamb separated from its mother. 'Just a little misunderstanding with one of the Vampirella Majesticas, Professor,' he explained, giving the bandaged wound a self-conscious tap. 'I blame myself, naturally. I mean, the poor little Vampirellas can't help themselves. Their instinct is to bite and they follow their instincts, so if one is silly enough to put one's nose in their way, well, one can hardly blame them, now can one? Creatures — and people — act according to their natures and there's no point expecting otherwise. Don't you agree?'
Gerald shot a beseeching look across the table at the princess but she wasn't paying attention. She'd brought a folder of work along with her and was busily totting up figures. In honour of the occasion she'd changed her clothes, but despite the fact that silk and satin and a certain amount of lace figured in the ensemble she still managed to look rumpled and tweedy.
He turned his attention back to the prince. 'Agree? Certainly, Your Highness.'
The prince beamed. 'I say, I do like you, Professor.' He leaned a little closer. 'So what do you think of Lional's private dining room? Isn't it the swankiest you've ever seen?' It was. The ceiling was some thirty feet overhead, and ripe with chandeliers. The walls were panelled with gilded mirrors. The mahogany dining table was laden with gleaming cutlery in four different varieties. There were three different kinds of glasses, an assortment of gold plates and bowls and two napkins for each diner.
Resisting the impulse to tuck one under his chin as a subtle hint that yes, on the whole he was ready for his dinner, thanks ever so much, he scowled at the overabundance of ironmongery and cursed himself for cutting short Reg's 'Etiquette For All Occasions'lecture.
As a finishing touch, whoever was responsible for setting the table had managed to squash in arrangements of wan-looking flowers. Any minute now they were going to start him sneezing. Behind each gilded dining chair, ramrod stiff and conspicuously not listening to both the conversations of his betters and any rumbling digestive systems, stood a magnificently liveried manservant complete with white gloves and a little napkin laid over the left arm, which was held away from the body at a precise ninety-degree angle. It looked like a desperately uncomfortable way to spend an evening.
Prince Rupert leaned even closer. 'Don't tell anyone I told you so,' he whispered,'but for what it cost to have the place refurbished three months ago we could've paid the Kallarapi twice what we owe them and still have change left over.' One bony finger tapped the side of his bandaged nose. 'But there you are. Lional does love his little comforts.'
Without looking up, the princess said, 'Rupert. No telling tales out ofTreasury.'
The prince blushed. 'Sorry, Mel.' He tittered, embarrassed, then nodded. 'I say, Professor, I do like your robe. Reminds me of the pattern you find on a Greater Winged Triple-Tipped Thribbet.'
'Thank you, Your Highness. It's actually Fandawandi silk. Quite rare.' 'Beautiful. Where did you get it?'
Back home, wizard robes were largely seen as pretentious affectations from a bygone era. But he suspected they were the kind of thing that would appeal to the king… and besides, this particular robe had sentimental value.'It was a graduation gift from my father, Your Highness. He's a tailor.'
'Really?' Prince Rupert marvelled. 'I say, that's fantastic. I'm useless with my hands, I'm afraid. All thumbs. I'd never dare pick up a needle and thread, you know, in case I stabbed myself in the eye. How desperately clever of him, I'm sure.'
Gerald considered the prince. Was he being sarcastic? No. No, there wasn't a sarcastic bone in Prince Rupert's daft body. The compliments were genuine.'Thank you, Your Highness.'
Another bleating laugh. 'Goodness, Professor, there's no need to stand on ceremony. Plain old Rupert, that's me. A prince in name only, I'm afraid. No credit to the crown.' The foolish mouth drooped for a moment. 'Sad to say, I'm a trial and a tribulation to the king. No, no, don't try to deny it, Melly. It's true. They think Nanny Prendergast dropped me on my head when I was a baby and never admitted it. I dare say that's true, too. It's the only reason I can think of, at any rate.'
'Well, well, well,' drawled an impeccable voice from the doorway. 'How… delightful… to see you all enjoying yourselves so much. Without mel
CHAPTER TEN
King Lional. At his side Tavistock the cat-turned-lion, its expression now unbearably smug: seemingly the animal liked its new look. The king's ring-smothered hand rested negligently on the beast's vast, maned head. He was dressed neck to knee in richest black velvet, the lush fabric carelessly strewn with seed pearls and diamonds. Poised in the doorway, glittering beneath the chandeliers, he looked as though someone had draped him in a section of cloudless midnight sky.
The herald at the doors blew a belated, vaguely musical trill through his horn and announced, 'Be upstanding for His Majesty King Lional the Forty-third!'
But Gerald was already on his feet, along with Rupert and the princess. Languid as molten gold, the king made his way to the head of the table; Tavistock padded with him, rawboned tail waving in a parody of greeting.
'So sorry to have kept you waiting,' Lional said, smiling as he eased into his throne-like chair. He didn't sound sorry at all.
'That's quite all right, old chap,' Rupert said cheerfully as they sat down again. 'We hardly noticed you weren't here, actually. Been having a lovely chat with the new wizard. I must say I think you've made an excellent choice this time, Lional. This one's much chirpier than those other old fossils. Grand, isn't it?'
Princess Melissande shoved aside her paperwork and covered her eyes with one hand. Sprawled indolently by the king's chair, Tavistock complained with a throaty rumble like distant calamitous thunder.
The king's smile widened. 'I'm relieved you approve, Rupert. Professor — ' he added, as the manservants began pouring wine and serving soup, 'allow me to compliment you on your attire. You quite put me to shame.'
'His father made it, Lional,' said Rupert. 'Wasn't that grand of him?'
The king stared, his cerulean eyes wide. 'Your father? Really?'
Pillock, pillock, pillock and prat. Gerald smiled. 'Yes, Your Majesty. He's a tailor. Or at least he was, until he retired.'
'Was he indeed?' Lional spread out his napkin with a snap.'Fancy that. Mine was a king, you know'
He felt his fingernails bite into his palms. Bastard. 'Indeed, Your Majesty. But then I think that to his son, every father is a king.'
Silence, broken only by Tavistock's resumed rumbling. Then Lional threw back his golden head and laughed. He sounded genuinely amused. Princess Melissande, the colour flooding back to her face, loosened her grip on her spoon.
'Professor, I believe you're right!' Lional declared. 'Let us raise our glasses to fathers, shall we?' He laughed again. 'Especially absent ones.'
The toast was drunk. Abruptly bereft of appetite, Gerald toyed with his bread roll. One of the manservants had given Tavistock an enormous bloody haunch of something to gnaw on. He'd never realised how big a lion's teeth were. Or how sharp. What had he been thinking?
Unlike his brother, who slurped, Lional consumed his lobster bisque daintily, fastidiously. Pausing between spoonfuls he dabbed his lips with his napkin and said, 'Melissande, I hope you've informed the Kallarapi I'm granting them the honour of an audience tomorrow' She nodded. 'Yes, Lional.'
'Excellent. I look forward to showing them the error of their ways. Don't you, Professor? Naturally, you will be in attendance. Lending the appropriate air of gravity and menace.'
Menace? He cleared his throat, very carefully not looking at the princess. 'Of course, Your Majesty. Although you know, my skills haven't been what you'd call honed in the international arena. I wonder if there's not someone else more suited who could take my place? Or at least join us. Her Highness Princess Melissande, perhaps. She is your prime minister, after all.' And if she attended the meeting he wouldn't have to worry about the king thinking
